


Along Came a Spider

by barbaricyawp



Series: Along Came a Spider [2]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Begging, Bondage, Cannibalism, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Monsters, Multi, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-14 09:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16489901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: In which Eddie Brock is bad at his job, Peter Parker is in over his head, and Venom is hungry.The continuation of "Itsy Bitsy."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll repeat myself: Peter Parker is an adult man in this story. He is in college. Thank you.

Eventually, Peter picks himself up off the ground and half-limps half-swings home. He’s got Venom’s jacket over his shoulders and, whoever this jacket actually belongs to, he must be a broad man because the jacket goes down past Peter’s thighs.

Which is good, on account of his _suit being fucking ripped open._

Peter swings in through his dorm window. He’s got class in a few hours but might skip; it’s only Organic Chemistry and he’s a few chapters ahead there and doesn’t even need it for either of his degrees.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, when he collapses onto his narrow twin-bed in an exhausted heap. It’s times like this that he’s insanely grateful that he lives in a single. No roommate to tiptoe around, to explain why he’s wearing a totally ruined Spider-Man suit, creeping into his own window at 6 in the morning.

Great walk of shame, Parker. Iconic.

He falls asleep like that, on top of the covers, in the jacket over the suit. He sleeps hard, dreamless, and wakes up with a dry mouth and an aching body. Peter is tender all over, but especially sore between his legs. 

Getting up and out of the suit is a nightmare. Limping wide-stanced down the hall to the showers is torture. But the hot water over his complaining muscles is heaven. He lets his head hang forward while the water runs down his back and shoulders. All the sweat and dirt from yesterday rolls off him and down the drain.

For the first time today, Peter can think clearly.

“Oh my god,” he says, resting his forehead against the tile of the showers. “I can’t believe that actually happened.”

Looks like Venom isn’t the only one who talks to themselves around here. Peter feels a little crazy, and when he gets out of the shower and catches a look at himself in the mirror…oh boy.

His face is a wreck. Peter has always been pale, easy to blush, and a hectic flush rises in patches over his cheeks and forehead. Like a little boy who’s been playing out in the cold. The cut on his forehead has mostly healed—thank you, radioactive spider healing powers—but there’s a bruise blooming there that he hopes will be gone by tomorrow.

But it’s his eyes that startle Peter the most. Glazed over and shiny, pupils blown wide despite the bright fluorescent lights. Paired with the blush, Peter looks feverish. Crazed, even.

And all this from just one alley fuck.

Maybe Ned is right. Maybe Peter is sexually starved, addicted to crime fighting, and he  _should_ download Tinder. And Grindr. And OkCupid, just to be safe. Because being this strung out from a single night in an alleyway is unacceptable.

Peter wobbles back to his room, ducking his head just in case his RA is skulking around somewhere, and locks himself in his dorm.

“Okay, Parker,” he says to himself, “Focus.”

First order of business is the suit. His poor, poor suit. He hangs it up on a hanger against the door and snaps a picture for Mr. Stark. He texts along the message, _Salvageable?_ , and waits for a reply.

It comes nearly an hour later: _What_ _did_ _you_ _sit_ _on_? _A_   _chainsaw_? And, a few minutes later, _Next_ _Friday_.

Peter groans. It’s not the only suit he has—Mr. Stark seems to make Spidey-suits like some people make lego models—but it’s definitely his favorite of the three. The Iron Spider suits are heavier, itchier, and seem like overkill.

But, hell, maybe overkill is what Peter needs tonight. If he goes out tonight.

A memory curls around him then, a thought so intrusive, he doesn’t even quite realize he’s thinking it. Venom, a sticky mass surrounding him and inside him. Venom, grinding him against the brick wall in the alley. Venom, pumping him full and bending him in half and…

And nothing. Who is he kidding? Peter Parker is going out tonight.

  

\---

 

_ **SEVERAL MONTHS AGO** _

In all fairness, this is probably Peter's fault. He went looking for the mysterious black creature, and he sure as hell found it. 

Peter isn’t just moving as fast as he can, he’s swinging through the city at a pace he can’t possibly keep up with. Each time he shoots a web, he’s only half assured that it’ll anchor to a solid surface. Each time, he swings his body forward, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to shoot the next web in time to keep himself from going splat against a brick wall.

He knows better than to look over his shoulder, but his terror gets the better of him. He looks and when he does, he’s not sure what he sees.

The thing chasing him—Venom, but Peter didn’t know that at the time—it looks like Peter’s shadow gone wrong. And huge, so big that Peter has a hard time tracking how far away from him it is. Like an optical illusion, it constantly seems closer than it is. It’s a strange, amorphous being, too dark to fully see even in the streetlights. He only catches a glimpse of it before he has to snap his head around to avoid hitting a semi-truck.

Venom isn’t so lucky; it crashes into the truck hard enough to topple the whole thing over. Peter rescues the driver from the crash—midroll, through the half-open passenger window _thank you very much_ —and circles above, changing directions.

As he passes, he catches the long gash of Venom’s wide mouth, smiling up at him.

A shiver rattles his spine. What the hell was that?

 

\---

 

_**MEANWHILE…** _

Peter sits on top of a building, scanning the streets for Venom. A few weeks ago, he might have gone out looking for it. A few weeks ago, he was constantly on the hunt for the alien creature skulking around the city. But now he knows that in order to find Venom, all he has to do it wait. 

Venom will come to him.

"Sorry, Karen," he says to the suit's AI. "I'm not sure I want an audience for this show. No offense."

"None taken," Karen says, her voice as light and friendly as ever. Peter almost feels a pang of guilt for sending her away. "Shutting down now."

The sun sets and Peter leans back on his palms to watch the pollution pink sky. Cars and pedestrians make the slow commute home below. Usually, this would be a view he couldn’t get enough of. 

Not the case; he’s still sore from the night before, and can’t get comfortable in the Iron Spider suit. The metal legs tuck up against his back, which makes it difficult to sit comfortably. (And he's already having trouble sitting.) But he can’t force himself to go home. Peter wouldn’t admit it, but he’s excited to see Venom. He wants to learn more about it. And to do that, he has to wait.

Though he doesn’t have to wait long, it isn’t Venom that comes for him.

The hairs on his arms raise, spidey-senses, and Peter looks around for a black alien with an enormous sexual appetite. Instead, he’s hit with roughly two hundred pounds of sand. He’s pushed over the side of the building and, just before he hits pavement, Peter manages to sling a web against the fire escape. 

Woozy from the fall, he spits out a mouthful of dirt and looks up to the _Villain du Jour_. A man, large and made of dirt, is scowling down at him from the roof. They’ve met before, and their acquaintance ended when Peter put him in jail.

His name is Clayface—no, wait, that’s a villain from the Batman comics—Clayman. Clayguy. Dirt Dude. Damn it. Peter needs to start a rolodex.

Not like knowing the villain’s name would help him now, as he’s pummeled to the ground by, of all things, _a giant sand fist._

As a rule, Peter struggles with any nemesis that doesn’t have a solid, corporal form; the webs are mostly useless and it's not like Peter is a big guy himself. It doesn’t help that he’s not operating at 100 percent, as stiff as he is from last night. He knows a losing fight when he sees it.

Peter makes a run for it.

He’s swinging his way through Harlem, weaving through traffic and barely managing to dodge a living sand monster, when the hair rises on his arms again. Something wicked this way comes.

“What now?” he grumbles to himself, just before he’s smacked in the back of the head by a load of sand. 

With no time to react, and nothing to brace himself against, Peter crashes through the sky window of an abandoned warehouse. He plummets. This time, when Peter hits the ground, he topples headfirst. His temple collides with the ground, and his vision becomes white static for a moment. All his blood feels like it’s pooling in his sinuses and he has to take a few stuttering breaths before he can remember that he has a body that can be moved. Slowly, and in more pain that he wants to admit, Peter rolls onto his back.

Venom is hovering over him.

“He’s alive,” it says to itself, and Peter can detect the relief in its voice. Then, to Peter, it says, “We’ll be right back.” And launches itself up towards Sand-Person.

Stiffly, Peter gets up on his elbows, and then to his hands and knees. His head is still ringing, and he can’t get the ground to lay flat. By the time he manages to wobble to his feet, Venom has already slunk up behind him, and Mud-Man is nowhere to be seen.

Venom gathers up Peter in its arms and roves a hand over the mask. Its touch is surprisingly gentle compared to its rough handling of Peter last night. If Peter didn't know any better, he'd guess that Venom was _concerned._

“Is anything broken?” The hand moves over the column of his throat, down his chest, across his hip.

“I, uh,” Peter doesn’t know what to do with this attention. “I’m fine. What happened to, uh…” 

If Venom had eyebrows, it would be raising one. “Sandman?”

“Sandman!" Peter snaps his fingers, muffled through the fabric of the suit. "That's his name! Shit, that was gonna bother me all night. Thank you.”

Venom gives a soft chuckle. "You don't have to worry about him. We took care of it."

It’s brighter in this abandoned warehouse than it was in the alley last night, and it’s the first time Peter has ever gotten a proper look at Venom’s face. The long slant of its white eyes look so much like the eyes on Peter's suit. There's even a fine texture of webs that cover its skin. And that wide, jagged mouth full of teeth...

It’s pretty spooky, to be honest.

Gently, as if handling something much more fragile than Spider-Man, Venom turns Peter over in its arms with long tendrils that extend from its back. When it's done, Venom has Peter sprawled over its arms on his stomach. There's a tendril pressed to his lower back, ready to rip the suit open again.

“You wrapped yourself in something new. Like a present,” it grumbles approvingly. "We love presents." 

And Peter wants it, really wants it. Has been craving feeling full like that again all day. But…

"We're in a warehouse. Anybody could see..."

"Didn't seem to bother you last night," Venom says, wrapping tendrils around Peter's thighs and spreading them apart. The movement hurts, tugs at his sore skin.

“Wait!” Peter squeaks, squirming and pushing against Venom’s limbs.

To his surprise, it stops. “What is it, little spider?”

“It’s not a big deal, really, kind of silly, but…look, dude, last night was a lot." Peter is really glad that he’s wearing a mask because otherwise Venom would see just how hot his face is, and that his eyes are watering from embarrassment.

Venom doesn’t seem to catch on. It tilts its head, slanted white eyes narrowing.

“I’m…” Fuck it. Sex is all about communication, right? “I’m _sore._ You’re too big and I’m sore, okay?”

If Venom’s mouth is casually scary, it is _terrifying_ when it curls into a smile. “You poor thing.” Its voice is honeysweet as it turns Peter around, facing it again. “We were too rough on you, weren’t we?”

Peter doesn’t know what else to do, but nod.

“Your poor little hole just couldn't take it."

"Oh my god this is so embarrassing."

Venom just smiles. "Let’s make it up to you, shall we?”

“Okay," Peter nods shakily, "Just don’t rip the—”

Venom rips open the suit.

Peter groans, "I only have so many of these, you know," but this time, Venom just drags a claw along the seam that runs between Peter's legs, ripping open barely enough of a slit to wiggle its finger inside.

It doesn’t try to get its fingers inside of Peter, or even one of those strange tendrils. Instead, it slips its tongue into the suit.

Peter’s whole body jerks when that tongue slides wetly against his hole, clamping his legs together because he can’t imagine anything else inside him. He’s sore from the inside out, the skin there feels thin and irritated.

Venom doesn’t push inside. It just curls its tongue against the red, puffed up skin, soothing the burn. The slight bumps of its tongue are a pleasant friction against his skin.

“Oh,” Peter sighs, because it feels pretty damn good. He tucks his face into his arms, only to have Venom pull those arms away, forcing him to leave his face uncovered so it can watch.

Venom’s tongue is slick and cool. Its not pressing hard, not even trying to enter Peter. Venom seems content to just pet against his entrance, stroking its tongue against where Peter hurts most. 

“Think you can handle more?” Venom says, somehow not lisping around its extended tongue. Its voice has that singular human quality to it again, but Peter might just be imagining things.

Peter has no idea if he _can,_ but he _wants to._ He nods, breath coming out a little shocky, anticipating the unique pleasure-pain that only Venom can accomplish. He closes his eyes and braces himself. 

But Venom only barely eases inside of him, the very tip of its tongue circling just past the ring of muscle. The end of Venom’s tongue is narrow, it’s not even really a stretch. Just a soft, oily pressure. Peter flutters around it, his body unsure what to do with this kind of touch. 

Eventually, when Peter relaxes, Venom pushes deeper into him. So slowly that, at first, Peter doesn’t notice. Then it brushes his prostrate and his whole body is filled with electricity. Venom rubs over that tight knot of nerves, light and teasing. Peter throws his head back, hard, but Venom catches it in its palm, hushing him. It spreads a hand between his shoulder blades, supporting him.

“Is this too much for you? Should we leave you alone?”

Even as Venom suggests it leave, that tongue grinds against Peter’s prostrate, making Peter all but thrash in its grasp.

“Dooon’t,” Peter whines, but he’s not able to articulate much more.

He’s a gasping mess now. Has never experienced a prostrate massage before, has never been held in the arms of an alien and gently tongue-fucked like this. He doesn’t know what to do with the way his body is full of liquid electricity. Peter feels too small to contain it all. In fact, he can't; precum blurts from his cock, dampening the front of his suit.

Venom takes notice. "You're making a mess of yourself, Spider-Man. Are you sure we can't help you out of this suit?"

Peter shakes his head vehemently. No. The suit has to stay on.

Humming, Venom pulls him closer. “When you’re healed, I’ll get my whole tongue inside you. Lick your insides until you can't _stand_ how good it feels. You’ll feel my tongue in your throat and you’ll _love it._ ”

“Oh wow,” Peter says, eloquent as ever. “That’s…that’s really dirty.”

“Just how we like you,” Venom says and flicks its tongue over its prostrate.

Peter didn't expect to come from this, but he does. Not as hard as he did last night; this orgasm feels more like a rumble of thunder than a lightning clap. But in a way, this one is more intense. It feels as if a new part of his body is unfolding, as if there's some secret space inside himself that he didn't know about. His come soaks the inside of the suit, spreading down his thighs. That's gonna _suck_ to clean out tonight.

This is the second time Peter has come untouched, and he’s hoping that this isn’t going to become a problem. 

Venom doesn’t dump him face down on the ground like last time. It lowers Peter gingerly to his feet, holding his shoulders and elbows until it’s certain that he can stand on its own. Peter wobbles a bit, his knees the same consistency as jelly, but manages to stay upright.  
  
Before it leaves, it grazes its teeth against the top of Peter’s head. It isn’t until Peter is in bed, stitching up his suit when it hits him:

That was a kiss. 

\---

 

The next day, he’s halfway to campus when he gets an email from his Ethics in Journalism professor, cancelling class because he’s sick. Of all Peter’s professors, this one is his favorite; the lectures are decent, the guy has an interesting past in journalism, and—though they’re only midway through the first semester—he has already cancelled class twice. 

Score. Peter is too sore (still!) to sit in class, and he was dreading it anyway.

He’s already on the subway to campus, though, so when he gets out he meanders to the local coffee shop just off Amsterdam. It’s his favorite, and there’s a lot to choose from, but they don’t burn their espresso and the foot traffic from other students is surprisingly light considering how close they are to campus.

While waiting in line, he browses the internet for any new articles on Venom. Venom hs become what Ned terms as his “white whale” and Peter spends most sleepless nights on his phone, researching. Today, all he gets is a Buzzfeed listicle titled, “Top Ten Venom Tongue Pics That We Don’t Know What to Do With: Rated” and he’s too embarrassed to get past the first few grainy shots.

Flushing, trying not to get too worked up in public, Peter scans the coffee shop. Next to the counter, reading a paper as he waits for coffee, slouches Peter’s Ethics in Journalism professor. Not sick. 

Busted.

Lightning fast, Peter whips out his phone to snap a picture and sends it off to the group text for that course. He locks his phone just as it starts buzzing with emojis and all-caps exclamations of delight.

The professor’s order is up. Peter watches him palm the cup by the lid, tilting it to the barista in a friendly gesture of gratitude.

“Cheers, Lynn,” he says to the barista. And then, to Peter’s surprise, he swivels the cup to Peter. “Cheers, cute but creepy kid who just took a picture of me.”

And Peter doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed at being caught or insulted that he doesn’t remember Peter from class. But either way, he finds himself grinning.

The professor raises his eyebrows as if expecting something, then turns to walk away, and Peter realizes—with a slam of self-annoyance —that he was just standing there, grinning stupidly and not saying anything. And he can’t just leave it at that, so he gets out of line and follows after him.

“You’re, uh, you’re Eddie Brock right?” Peter says, and Professor Brock makes a half turn to look at him over his shoulder. “The guy who, uh, shut down the Life Foundation a few years ago?”

Professor Brock seems momentarily shocked by this, before his face closes off. This is a new side of him, someone that Peter doesn’t recognize. In class, Prof Brock is gregarious and booming—always on a spirited tangent about corporate corruption and investigative journalism. Here, he’s guarded. Protective of himself.

“Nah,” he says, “I’m the guy who has to live with Eddie Brock’s fuck ups.”

Peter laughs, feeling a little warm under his hoodie and jacket. “I’m Peter,” he says.

Prof Brock tucks his newspaper under his arm to extend a non-latte hand for a shake. Peter gives it a few good pumps, harder than he probably should, but Prof Brock seems impressed by his firm handshake.

“Nice to meet you,” he says and gives him a once over. “You, uh, go to school around here, Peter?”

“Mhm,” Peter says, amused. “Columbia. Double major in microbiology and photographic journalism.”

Prof Brock is definitely checking him out now, his lips parted as his eyes linger on Peter's body. Peter feels a flush rise high over his cheekbones, down over his collarbones too. Flattered, if a little in over his head.

“Photographic journalism, huh? You know, I happen to—”

Peter can see the exact moment that Prof Brock recognizes him. 

“—be your Ethics in Journalism professor. Shit.”

Peter laughs and rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed for him. “Feeling better, Professor Brock?”

“’Eddie’ is good for right now.” He snorts and shifts the paper under his arm. “You know, you really had me going there for a second, kid."

“Sorry about that, Eddie,” Peter says, trying out the name on his tongue. Some of the other students in class call Prof Brock by his first name; he encourages it. But Peter always felt it was a little disrespectful. “In my defense, there aren’t that many students in my section.”

“In my defense, I’m an adjunct professor.” 

“Good defense.”

Prof Brock—Eddie—laughs, sending a pleasant shiver up Peter’s spine.

“I’ll see you in class next week, Peter. And—” he pauses, mulling over something in his head, lips mouthing over mute words as he does when he’s thinking something over. Prof Brock is always mouthing stuff to himself in class.

Not that Peter spends any amount of time looking at his lips.

“Yes?”

Eddie lays a hand on his shoulder. “Stay out of trouble.”

Peter is so flushed and discombobulated that he doesn’t notice the hair on his arms is standing on end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can catch me at [barb-aricyawp](https://barb-aricyawp.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I was not expecting such a kind and enthusiastic response to this story! I've never gotten so many comments or kudos on a single chapter. So, as a gift, I'm updating early. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading and responding. It means the world to me.
> 
> Oh, and Peter Parker is still an adult in this.

Eddie Brock is a lot of things. A quality educator is not one of them. When he moved back to New York City, it was with new purpose. He wanted to protect the city, return to the journalistic values that he'd carried since he was young. He was going to make a difference this time, and not just in the name of his own inflated ego. Eddie Brock was turning over a new leaf, so to speak.

The adjunct position at Columbia was meant to be temporary; he’d teach a couple sections, collect a modest (read: stingy) paycheck while he looked for other work, and move onto bigger and brighter things.

Hell, by now Eddie figured he’d have been fired from the university. Thought he'd swear at a student, or show up drunk to class, or accidentally start a massive student protest on campus, or something similarly irresponsible by now. Not the case.

Work was hard to come by, especially since he moonlights as a symbiotic anti-hero, and has been run out of not one, but _two_ cities. Flexible hours for a disgraced journalist aren't exactly listed on Indeed every day. Besides, professorial work at the adjunct level wasn’t so bad. Most of the time, Eddie just sits at his desk in front of a lecture hall of twenty-ish students, going on and on about the golden age of journalism and clickbait and what have you.

Up until now, he’d never really considered quitting. Up until the incident in the coffee shop with Peter Parker, Eddie was pretty satisfied (read: complacent) with his job at Columbia. But as he takes the train back to his tiny (read: shitty) garden apartment, Venom has a lot to say on the matter.

 _He was cute,_ Venom thinks, conjuring an uninvited image of that Peter Parker boy face down, on his knees. _Smelled good too._

“Forget about it,” Eddie grumbles. “He’s our student.”

 _Your student,_ Venom corrects helpfully, _Perhaps **we** should pay him a visit._

“Nope,” Eddie says, even as Venom sends him a litany of dirty images. What Parker’s mouth would look like pink and swollen from a good cock down his throat. A glowing red handprint on his pale buttock. What kind of noises a guy like that could make under their attention.

Eddie shakes his head and gets off at the next stop, bumping into a few people in his haste to get off the train. He’s attracting attention from fellow passengers, and he could use a walk to clear his head. Outside is crisp, the seasons changing. Eddie is wearing two sweaters and thick wool socks, but the layers don't do him much good against the windchill blustering through the city. He desperately wishes that he had his denim jacket with him, but Spider-Man needed it more a few nights ago. He even finds himself patting where the pockets would be, looking for his lighter.

Venom, sensing a losing argument, sighs. _When did you get so boring, Eddie?_

“When your definition of exciting became statutory, that’s when.”

A group of joggers--three women in tight spandex and glittery running shoes--give them a horrified look at Eddie’s comment. Abashed, Eddie shoots them a wavering smile, lowering his voice when he whispers next.

“We could go looking for Spider-Man tonight. Will that make you happy?”

Venom is pouting; Eddie can feel the heavy weight of its childlike petulance settle over both of them. But he’s not giving in on this one. Not one inch. Students are off limits. _Somebody_ has to be their moral compass around here.

It’s only after they’re a few blocks away from home that Venom finally graces Eddie with a comment.  _Spider-Man isn’t ready for us tonight._

Eddie blushes, heating up their whole body, which gets a pleased cackle out of Venom. They were gentle with him last night, at Eddie’s coaching; Venom isn’t always so great with self-restraint.

They were not so gentle the night before.

“Home it is, then.”

_Let’s order a pizza. And jerk off._

"I'm rubbing off on you too much."

_I wish you'd rub off on me some more._

 

\---

  

_**SEVERAL MONTHS AGO** _

Eddie and Venom are walking home from campus, over-burdened by a load of essays on yellow journalism in his messenger bag. It's been a long day and Eddie's last lecture didn't go as well as he had planned. But the day is over. They both have one thought on their minds: ordering sushi.

 _Tuna,_ Venom lists. _And eel. Lots of eel._

Eddie is already bringing up Door Dash on his phone when they both hear it: a woman’s scream. It’s coming from the alley a few blocks ahead. Eddie ditches the papers—he’ll give them all B-pluses anyway—and Venom overtakes him. Eddie loves that warm, slithery sensation of Venom's body covering his own. Can't get enough of the heady feeling of power that overcomes them both when they move together like this.

They bound ahead, round the corner into the alleyway, expecting to encounter a mugging or a sexual assault. Instead, there stands a red-suited man, lithe and little. A woman stands behind him, both facing what must be a villain. A guy in a ski mask, classic crook attire, is completely stuck to the wall by webs. The day is saved before Venom could even get there.

The little spiderling in red turns then, as if sensing Venom’s presence behind them. Venom melts into the dark. Concealed out of sight.

Despite no visual and audible evidence, he keeps searching the dark. Venom blends right in. He asks the woman if she’s alright and then shoots a long web from his wrist, propelling his body up several stories. There, he scales the building quickly.

 _Don’t let him get away_ , is Venom’s only thought. And Eddie has to agree. They take off after him, as quickly and as quietly as they can.

Eddie has seen Spider-Man in the news, heard of the superhero that sticks mostly to the streets of New York City and has vigilantly patrolled them from a young age. Eddie has always sort of scoffed at the level of idealism necessary to be a superhero. Believing in one’s complete virtue and capability to that extent cannot be healthy. Virtue? Self-esteem? These aren't really Eddie's strong suits. So, count Eddie out when it comes to capes.

This Spider-Man though…

Venom is right. They cannot let him get away.

They slink in the dark after him, not quite stalking, but consumed with curiosity. Spider-Man scuttles up to the rooftops, launching himself higher and higher to get a bird’s eye view. Once he’s up as high as he can get (and Venom has crept along after him) Spider-Man surveys the streets. Backlit by the city, he strikes a handsome silhouette: slim, capable, and strange. A little arachnid catching creepy-crawlers in its web.

 _Who is he?_ Venom asks Eddie.

Eddie shrugs. _No one knows who Spider-Man is._

_He’s lovely._

_Got a crush?_

There isn’t a sound. There isn’t a motion. But Spider-Man’s head whips to the left, drawn by something that even Venom can’t sense. He bounds off the side of the building, moving with purpose. They slink after him to the edge of the roof, but by the time they get there, Spider-Man is a red line swinging through the streets. Already several blocks away. Wherever he passes, people stop and point. A few even cheer.

“They love him,” Venom says aloud. And then they think in tandem, _I see why._

\---

**_STILL SEVERAL MONTHS AGO..._ **

The next time they see Spider-Man, it’s different. He notices them, for starters, and he’s actively hunting them. As it happens, the spider catches Venom and Eddie mid-hunt themselves. 

They're stalking another symbiotic pair, Cletus Kasady and Carnage. The duo has recently migrated to New York City after busting out of maximum security in San Fransisco. At first, Eddie flattered himself into thinking that the escaped convict had followed _him_ here, but Kasady seems indifferent to their presence. After his own prey. They follow Kasady through the streets of Harlem, but lose him when he ducks into an underground sex club.

Venom has been pushing to eat them.

All Spider-Man, bless him, sees is a sinister alien stalking a what appears to be an innocent transient man. He catches them in the alley, dripping saliva. Venom doesn’t see any point in running from the spider when he backs them into a corner. Venom stays put.

“Hey, you!” Spider-Man says, and his is not a voice that they were anticipating. Hard to tell what his real voice sounds like; he’s trying to make his voice sound lower than it is. But the soft tenor is alluring all the same. “St-stop where you are!”

If Eddie and Venom were already intrigued by the little spiderling, that brief stutter is a temptation they can’t resist. That rabbit-hearted spike of fear that Venom strikes in Spider-Man is too delicious. They can sense the instinctual fear like a palpable presence, sticky-sweet as it drips off him.

Eddie could lick it from Venom’s fingertips like syrup. 

Venom advances forward. “Oh,” it says, not consulting with Eddie first. “We could eat you whole.”

Spider-Man visibly cowers. 

Eddie elbows Venom’s ribs from the inside. It’s a mostly symbolic gesture, doesn't hurt the spongy interior of Venom's form, and it is completely lost on the symbiote. _You’re going to scare him away,_ Eddie thinks. 

Sure enough, Spider-Man shoots a web at Venom’s extended hand, which they easily morph out of—like sand through a tennis racket. Spider-Man shoots another at its chest with the same results. Venom takes two more steps forward, hand still reaching out toward Spider-Man. So close that they could touch.

“Yeah, haha, no thank you,” Spider-Man chokes out and sprints up the side of a wall.

Venom's head tilts back at an unnatural angle to watch him climb. “Don’t you dare,” Eddie hisses, but Venom has already taken off after poor Spider-Man. It appears Eddie is along for the ride.

“I just want to see where he’ll go,” Venom says as they leap over the rooftops above the streets where Spider-Man swings. They’re fast, running on all fours like this, and they gain on him quickly. 

Spider-Man chances a look back at them and then redoubles his efforts to escape. Eddie feels guilt lance through him.

_You’re scaring him._

“We won’t hurt him.”

_He doesn’t know that._

When they end up flat on their back, embedded in the side of Wonderbread truck, Venom isn’t even bothered. Eddie, having watched Spider-Man’s acrobatics to save the driver, is in awe. They both grin up at the passing Spider-Man overhead. Moony. A shiver of ominous anticipation crawls over them. Webbing, thin and spidery, raises like gooseflesh over Venom’s black skin.

 _Alright,_ Eddie concedes, _But we won’t hurt him._

 

\---

 

_**MEANWHILE…** _

Thinking about it now as he lies in bed, Eddie palms himself through his sweatpants. They've just polished off two extra-large pizzas from Sully's and Eddie is a buzzy drunk on red wine, a perfect moment for a little, uh... _self care._ The moment he has the half-hard heft of himself in hand, Venom perks up. Eddie’s hand goes black from the forearm down, and he lets Venom take control of their touch.

The weight on Eddie’s shoulder signals that Venom has made itself a head from Eddie’s back. So it can watch.

His own head tilts back, mouth going slack as Venom strokes him to hardness through the soft fabric of his sweats. He can feel Venom's breath, hot and damp, against the shell of his ear. When Venom rolls their thumb over the head of his cock, Eddie groans.

Venom takes this as an opportunity. “Thinking about Spider-Man, again?”

“Uh huh,” Eddie says, seeing no point in lying to Venom. He knows it is thinking about Spider-Man too. “His legs.”

“Mmm. So flexible,” Venom agrees, wrapping their hand tightly around the base of his cock, almost punishing. “I bet we can spread them wider next time. I bet, he can…what’s it called? I forget.”

“Do the splits,” Eddie groans. He can picture it. Those long, lithe legs spread-eagle over their bed, Venom’s tongue inside him. Spider-Man would thrash, like he did the last two times, but they could hold him down. Make him take it. Like a good boy.

“Tasted good too,” Venom says, sensing the tenor of Eddie’s thoughts. ”And the way he _squirmed._ ” 

Venom rubs their thumb into the slit of his cock, precum squelching up, and they both give a low moan. It's good, it's always good. But Eddie can sense Venom’s thoughts are wandering, no longer just thinking about bendy, delicious Spider-Man. Venom’s hunger has moved to—

“Cut that out,” Eddie says, prying their fingers off himself. “He’s my student.”

“That doesn’t mean much to me.”

“I _know_ it doesn’t, but I could lose my job.” 

“You’ve lost your job over stupider shit,” Venom reasons.

Eddie's thoughts turn to his ex-wife. The ex-wife they never managed to win back. The husband that can treat her better. Venom wrenches these thoughts away before Eddie can protest. It overwhelms him, envisions Peter Parker bent over Eddie’s desk.

_Parker’s cheek pressed into one of the hectic piles of paper that you can never organize. His fingers scrabbling for the edge of the desk. Jeans shoved down to his knees. So fragile, so sweet, so…_

“Off limits,” Eddie finishes the thought.

Venom settles its proxy-head on Eddie’s shoulder, sighing. Eddie turns and kisses its cheek. Venom gives a soft grumble, but doesn’t press the matter. _Whatever you want, Eddie,_ it thinks, not without a note of bitterness.

Eddie’s erection is beginning to wilt, and Venom picks up their hand again. As frustrated as Venom is with Eddie, it’s not about to pass up an orgasm. If there's one thing Venom loves about human bodies, it's orgasms. 

“I just don’t understand,” it hums after a stretch, lightly dragging their blunt human nails up his cock.

“Power differential,” Eddie explains, biting his lower lip. Venom is remembering Parker’s shy blush when Eddie checked him out. How small Peter’s hand felt in their own. Despite his stocky stature, Eddie isn't a tall man, but neither is Peter Parker. And Venom is larger than them both. Much larger. 

“Isn’t a little power struggle what makes it good? You seem to like it…”

At that, Venom squeezes Eddie’s sac hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. The hand not surrendered to Venom’s control grasps the bedsheets. It hurts, really hurts, but a good hurt. The kind that has Eddie weak. When Venom doesn’t make any move to continue stroking, Eddie knows what game they’re playing.

“Touch me,” he says, more demanding than Venom likes.

“I _am_ touching you.” Venom’s grasp tightens and Eddie’s hips flinch back into the mattress. “Do you not like the way I’m touching you?”

Over his shoulder, Venom grins at Eddie. It knows when he’s backed into a corner.

Eddie turns his head to the side. “Please,” he says, “Make me come.”

Venom strokes over him lightly and Eddie has to buck his hips up into its touch to get any sort of satisfactory friction. And it must look ridiculous to anyone else—a man helplessly humping his own hand, teasing himself. Begging himself to come. 

Of course, Venom loves this. “You look so good like this, Eddie. Big boy made small.”

“Save it,” Eddie rasps, meaning Spider-Man.

“Mm,” Venom says, willfully misinterpreting. “You could do this to Parker, you know. Pin him down by the hips—”

Mimicking its own fantasy, Venom slams their hips down against the mattress. Eddie keens at the loss of friction. Venom’s light touch isn’t enough.

“—make him take it however _we_ like. Wouldn’t you like that Eddie?”

“I’d like it,” Eddie admits. Anything to get Venom’s hand back on him.

Venom doesn’t waste time. It jerks their hand over him hard, setting a brutal pace until Eddie is shaking with the force of their orgasm. They come together, as they always do, and the exertion leaves Eddie gasping for breath.

“See,” Venom says, melting back into Eddie. “A little power difference isn’t so bad.”

 

\---

 

True to their word, Eddie and Venom avoid harming their new little friend by giving him a break over the weekend. They spend Saturday night stalking Kasady, but turn in early without finding him. The November chill drove Eddie back inside.

(“We never should have given Spider-Man our coat,” Venom groused, worried that Eddie will catch a cold in his frail human body. But Eddie just shrugged it off; Venom can handle the common cold.)

Sunday is reserved for grading papers. Eddie lounges on the couch with a bottle of beer and a fleece blanket over his knees. Venom has some of its black limbs sprawled out from Eddie’s back, stretching in the sunlight that comes in through the half windows. It slumbers, peaceful and content to just stay with Eddie.

Eddie suspects that he would despise grading if it weren’t for Venom’s lackadaisical presence. As it stands, grading is a cozy practice for him. Something that he doesn’t gleefully await, but enjoys nonetheless.

When Eddie gets to Parker’s paper, he pauses. The research is thorough, and Parker has a strong thesis despite his rambling sentences and sloppy organization. Eddie would give it a B- usually, maybe even a B since the kid isn’t planning on writing news columns.

(Photographic journalism. Ha. Good thing Parker’s planning on microbiology, too, or he’ll be in Eddie’s position in a decade or two.)

Eddie has written the first vertical line of a B when he hesitates. Peter Parker’s name above the B doesn’t feel right in the instinctual way that Eddie tends to grade. He scribbles it out and curves the pen around a C.

 _Why did you do that?_ Venom asks. _We like him._

 _Favoritism,_ Eddie answers plainly. 

Venom grumbles. Eddie feels the vibrations low in his ribs. _Seems unfair to punish him for our attraction._

 _It’s not punishment, I’m just erring on the side of caution,_ Eddie explains. Then, he scratches in a plus sign into the cup of the C.

“There,” he says aloud, startling Venom. “Now it’s a C+. Is that better?”

Venom sighs. _And you say I’m cruel._

Eddie flips to the second page, jabbing a finger at the fourth paragraph. “This is two sentences long and one sentence is a quotation.”

“He’ll be disappointed,” Venom says forebodingly.

 

\---

 

Parker’s class comes too quickly. The morning of, Eddie seriously considers cancelling class again. Then he gets an email from the department chair to remind him that midterm grades are coming up, and Eddie remembers that academia is an ever present prison of invisible surveillance.

He hosts class.

Eddie arrives late, hoping that if Parker is on time—which he never is—that he’ll have the buffer of other students. With one eye open for Parker, Eddie sets up his laptop to the ever finicky projector (because Professor Eddie Brock is going to show newsclips _goddamn it_ ). Students filter in, but no Parker. Eddie begins his lecture with a hop in his step, thinking that maybe they got off easy.

 _He’ll come,_ Venom predicts.

As it often is about these things, Venom turns out to be right. Eddie is playing a clip from Fox News (making a point about rhetorical tactics) when the door opens and in clambers Peter Parker. Eddie’s heart leaps up into his throat. Venom shifts under his skin.

Parker takes the seat closest to the door, and Eddie continues the lecture as if he never entered. He’s glad that the classroom is dark so that he can more or less ignore Parker. In the dark, Parker is just a slim silhouette.

Though Eddie tries his best to keep his attention off him, Venom keeps tugging at his consciousness. It's trying to show him something, urging him to look towards the boy. Eddie keeps his head firmly in the realm of class, of professionalism, goddamn it.

 _Eddie,_ Venom grumbles when it can’t get his attention.

 _Not now,_ Eddie thinks, just as he says, “Note how the police officer is never the subject of the sentence. Always in the passive. Can anyone give me an example from this clip? Nobody? Really?”

_Eddie._

“The gun was shot five times,” a Sophomore in the first row guesses. 

_Eddie._

Parker shifts in the back row, Eddie can feel it like he can feel his own lungs contract, and Venom forces Eddie’s head a bit towards him. Resolute to ignore him, Eddie turns Venom's gesture into an enthusiastic nod for his student’s point. His eyes are still firmly locked on anything but Peter Parker.

"Exactly!"

"Eddie," and this time Venom audibly whispers. Eddie can only hope that his students didn't hear it over the whir of the projector fan.

_Not. Now._

“And, uh, so...Why is that? Anybody? Why’s that depressing as fuck detail in passive voice?”

From the back of the room, Peter Parker raises his hand. Eddie can’t avoid him anymore; his head turns slowly towards Parker. Now that he’s looking at him, he can see what Venom was trying to point out. What had Venom so antsy from the moment Parker entered. At the sight, Eddie's brain turns to white static, his body switches over to autodrive.

“Fox uses passive voice,” Parker answers confidently, "To avoid blame."

He settles back into his seat, sinking into a too large denim jacket. It eats him whole, the collar stiff around his jaw. The jacket is an oversized light wash with a hole worn into the elbow and a loose button near the collar. Eddie’s jacket.

The jacket he left with Spider-Man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This one got away from me a little. This chapter is a heavyweight that clocks in at about 6k. 
> 
> Watch out for semi-graphic depictions of violence.
> 
> Peter remains an adult in this story.

**_LAST WEEKEND… _ **

Peter Parker returns to his dorm in a sour mood. It’s nearly 4AM and, despite venturing out into the city for hours on end, he hasn’t been able to find Venom. Or Sandy the Sandman. Or really any villain of note.

All this friendly neighborhood spider managed to do was save a _single_ bus from toppling off the Brooklyn bridge. And the crash probably wouldn’t even have been fatal. Pathetic, Parker.

But it isn’t the masked crusading that has Peter down. It's been a while since Peter last saw Venom, and he doesn’t know what he did to make it spurn him. If Venom’s been scarce because Peter was too sore to have sex, then it can go tentacle-fuck itself and see how it feels the next day. Peter can't admit that the rejection still stings. He thought…

Well, what did he think? That he and Venom were going to have some sort of, well, _romance?_ Fat chance, Parker.

Ashamed and frustrated, Parker crawls into his bed. He sleeps fitfully in the Iron Spider suit, and finds himself wide awake as the sun lightens the sky. The metal legs have left itchy indents in his back, and though he's spent the last twelve hours in the suit, he suddenly needs to get the hell out of it. Right now.  
  
Peter peels himself out of it with a grimace. His body aches all over, and his head feels full of wasps. He’s dehydrated, even after he clears a Nalgene full of water from his bedside table. For a moment, Peter just sits on the edge of his bed, considering his skinny knees. Venom held apart those knees and stroked the inside with its tentacles. A week ago Venom would have told Peter those knees were delicious. 

The jacket, Venom’s jacket, hangs on the post at the foot of his bed. As if his hand belongs to someone else, Peter grasps it by the arm and tugs it toward himself. He tucks his nose into the collar. The smell is both familiar—the cloying alien scent of Venom—and very human. There’s the smell of sweat in these folds, of engine exhaust and coffee.

Peter was right. There _is_ a human in there.

Lying back, Peter pulls the jacket over himself. The heavy denim is rough and cool against his naked skin and Peter swallows thickly. He settles it over his shoulders, the back covering his chest so that he can keep his nose nestled inside the collar. Whomever this jacket belongs to, he’s a broad man but not so humongously broad as Venom. The idea makes Peter squirm a little.

Peter curls up inside the jacket, rolling over onto his front. He’d intended to fall back asleep, but the pressure of the mattress stirs his interest. Testing, Peter flexes his hips down into the mattress. He winces; the denim’s coarse texture sorta burns against him.

It feels amazing.

Lazy, not caring if this results in an orgasm or not, Peter gathers his knees up under him to get the angle right, grinding his hips down. He curls his fingers around the posts of his bed, imagining that its Venom that keeps his hands above his head. He spreads his knees out wider, driving the tip of his cock into the hard seam at the hem of the jacket.

Peter whines softly. Venom liked those noises; he could feel its excitement in its shudders and groans. But it also liked it when Peter tried to keep those noises quiet. When Peter struggled with himself to smother it all down.

Peter bites down on the edge of the collar. The tough fabric folded between his teeth is thick, and he grits down on it. His fingers are wound so tight around his headboard that he can hear the wood creak. Moving with more purpose now, Peter chases after his orgasm. Drool soaks the collar as he savagely ruts into the denim.

He can't keep quiet, can't help but let out a long, strangled moan.

When he comes, Peter is careful not to let any get onto the jacket itself. He doesn’t clean himself or the bed afterward. Just curls up into the folds of denim and falls back asleep.

He’s too tired to notice that he’s being watched.

 

\---

 

**_ MEANWHILE… _ **

Peter has been looking forward to class, specifically Professor Brock’s class, all week. Hell, he is even more excited to see Prof Brock than he is to get his suit back. And he's pretty damn excited to get that suit back.

Auspiciously, the suit arrives to Peter’s dorm a few hours before class starts. It rests in a briefcase on his bed with a typed note, _Next time spare me the visual._

When he comes back to his dorm and sees it, Peter holds the suit close to his chest. He whispers to it, “I’ll never let anything hurt you,” though it’s a mostly empty promise. He’d certainly let Venom rip it to shreds.

Feeling a little buoyed by the return of his suit, Peter stuffs his clothes for class into his backpack—grabbing the first coat he can find, total coincidence that it’s Venom’s denim jacket. The denim jacket that he’s been wearing around his dorm all week, so much so that the scent has faded from it.

Before heading to class, Peter tries to squeeze in a quick patrol of the city in his newly repaired suit. But he gets waylaid. He’s perched on a traffic light, gaging if he should help the two cop cars speeding after a pickup truck, when he’s abruptly battered off. He’s swept up and carried off the street. A black, sticky mass glues him to the side of the building.

Why is it that supervillains wait for the worst possible time? Peter has class in half an hour for chrissakes. 

At first, Peter thinks that it’s Venom, but the face is wrong. Narrower than Venom’s and pulled tight at the mouth. The color of its skin has a tinge of red, like dried blood. This isn’t Venom. This is some other symbiote. Peter feels panic, real panic, spread like ice down his limbs. He was never any match for Venom, and Venom _likes_ him.

“Uh, hi there,” Peter says, resorting to humor as he often does in dire straits. “I’m Spider-Man. Nice to meetcha, uh…”

“Carnage,” the symbiote fills in, its voice a grating polyvocal warble.

If Venom’s double-speech is a low purr, Carnage’s is a whining screech. Peter flinches from the sound and feels his heart thud against his ribs. Carnage takes note and drags its claws lightly down his chest, down his stomach. It doesn’t rip the suit, but doesn’t need to. The implication of this touch is enough.

“What are you?” Carnage says, the curiosity in its voice is a cruelty. Like Peter is some freakish novelty. “A little bug in a boy’s body?”

Usually, he'd have a sarcastic quip or at least a _pun_ in rebuttal. Maybe even a comical gesture. But, nothing comes to him. Peter can’t breathe for fear, can’t force his higher brain functioning to operate. 

Luckily, that’s what Karen is for. “Peter,” she says in his ear, reassuring. “Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark?”

God, no he does _not_. Doesn't need Mr. Stark coming around blasting AC/DC and causing a fuss. He can handle this himself, really. The threat of humiliation via Stark is enough to jog his brain into action.

Or at least jog it enough to ask Carnage, “What do you want?”

“Rude little thing aren’t you?” Carnage growls, but it lowers Peter to his feet. “Nothing for now.”

Once he’s on his feet, Peter looks up to Carnage. It’s big, monstrous in size, but Peter can’t tell if it’s bigger than Venom. Towering over him, Carnage just drools at Peter, breathing heavily. Pedestrians pass by the alleyway, but don’t seem to notice two superhumans engaged in a staring contest behind the dumpsters. That's New York for you.

“Uh, I’m not gonna thank you,” Peter quips, “If that’s what you’re waiting for.” 

Carnage makes another displeased sound, an indignant rumble deep in its chest. It doesn't have much of a sense of humor, and for some reason that's disappointing. “If you see Venom…" it says, "Let him know we say hello.”

“Woah. Wait. What?” Peter blushes under the mask. Because if Carnage knows that he’s rubbing elbows with Venom, then he also must know…

Peter doesn’t have time to dwell on any witnesses to his midnight excursions; Carnage melts into the wall and creeps away. Peter watches it go, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd probably have stood there dumbstruck for another ten minutes if Karen didn't chime in, "You're going to be late for class."

When Peter looks down to his watch, he realizes that Carnage—dumb name by the way—set him back by a full forty minutes. He’s now running ten late for Prof Brock’s class.

 

\---

 

Class doesn’t go well either. Why would it? In fact, it ends up being the pitchfork in Satan’s hand of Peter’s hell week. He arrives late, as he expected, spidey-senses all out whack from his encounter with Carnage. It isn’t just the hair on his arms standing on end, but the hair at the nape of his neck and along his legs. He feels like the surface of a balloon rubbed against the carpet: statically charged and ready to pop.

As he tunes into the lecture, all he can think about is the way that Prof Brock checked him out in the coffee shop. The sardonic but good humored tilt of his mouth as he smiled at Peter. It made him feel singular, made him feel seen.

A few minutes into class, Peter even thinks he hears someone whisper _Eddie_ to him, but it must be a phantom of his imagination. No one else seems to notice the whisper, least of all Prof Brock.

“Why’s that depressing as fuck detail in passive voice?” Prof Brock asks the class, animated. Peter has always liked his teaching style. Funny, a little self-deprecating, always vulgar, and completely willing to hear his students’ perspectives.

Peter answers Prof Brock’s question and feels pretty good about the answer. Must not have been good enough, because Prof Brock scowls and brushes it off. His eyes aren’t even on Peter’s _face_ when he answered the question. 

And, okay, yeah Peter Parker is a reasonable guy. He’s not, like, _pissy_ or anything like that. But when Prof Brock tosses down his graded paper without even a “Hello!” or a little eye contact, and when Peter turns it over to find that he’s been given a C+ (let him repeat, _a C+_ )…well, yeah. He gets a little ticked off. 

Peter is so fed up and, yes, _petty_ over the whole thing that he waits the half an hour for Prof Brock—no, _Eddie’s_ office hours. He sits by the door on the tile floor, scouring the blurry picture he took of the rubric. And when Eddie finally unlocks his door, Peter waits until he can hear him sit back into his chair before he flings open the door (without knocking!) and slaps the paper on his desk.

“I deserved an 83 percent,” Peter says. “The writing was weak, I’ll admit; I was tired and I phoned it in. But your rubric—” Peter gets out his phone, flipping through his photos to find the syllabus. “—said mechanics and organization only count for ten percent each. No way I totally flubbed both. And I worked _really_ hard on that research. I worked really hard in general, harder than a C+ anyway. So, yeah…83 percent.”

Peter is panting by the end of that rehearsed speech, but he’s pretty pleased with himself. Eddie looks completely floored. He makes straight eye contact with Peter, finally, and then looks away in shame. His lips are pressed tightly together, jaw clenching.

It feels good to be the one to make somebody a little humble for once.

But when Peter spies the blush simmering at the tips of Eddie’s ears, he feels kinda bad for the guy. He softens just a smidge. It’s not the guy’s fault that they can’t...do anything about the chemistry between them. And a C+ isn’t even that far from 83 percent. With a sigh, Peter takes a seat in the chair next to his desk. They're now at a distance where they could touch.  
  
For a moment, Eddie's body leans towards Peter's. Eddie watches him sit, eyes about level with his shoulders, and looks away again when Peter leans forward.

“Hey, I know this is weird,” Peter says, “With, uh, how we bumped into each other at the—"

“Look, kid,” Eddie interrupts sharply, “I don’t know what you _think_ is between us, but there is no fucking way—”

Catching himself, Eddie goes silent here for a long moment. Though he turns his head away, Peter can see his mouth twitching. He gives an irritable shrug of the shoulders and continues, this time with a softer tone.

“But it can’t happen.” He looks Peter in the eyes as he says it. They're nice eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Well then, _okay_. Peter nods and casts his eyes down to his paper. He doesn’t have anything to say to that, really. Feels sort of scooped out now. He reaches across the desk to grab his C+ essay.

“Oh,” Eddie says, turning towards his laptop. “I’ll adjust your grade.”

Peter is out the door before Eddie can even pull up the gradebook. And, but seriously, what _gives_ today?

 

\---

 

Thoroughly self-degraded, Peter slumps into his bed and lets himself have a good cry. He cries until his cheeks and eyelids are raw from the scrub of saltwater. He cries until his chest hurts from his heart’s bullying against his ribs. It isn’t a sad cry, even. It’s just out of frustration and embarrassment.

When he gets up out of bed, his eyes are sore, but he’s in a better mood than before. He taps out a heartfelt thank you to Mr. Stark for fixing his suit, and decides that he should take a selfie of himself in it. He goes up to the roof of his dorm to take a video of himself doing a backflip. He manages to land flat on his face.

He sends it to both Mr. Stark and Ned, but captions Mr. Stark’s video with, _Must be a glitch in the suit!_

Then he asks Ned if he wants to meet up because it’s been nearly two weeks since he’s seen the guy in person. They spend the evening playing video games and Peter tells him all about Carnage (but leaves out details concerning any _other_ symbiotes). Between the video games and Ned's shock/awe over his friendly neighborhood antics, he manages to keep his mind off his shitty day for approximately four hours.

 

\---

 

Peter can’t sleep. It’s nearly 3AM, he has Organic Chemistry in the morning, and he can’t sleep. It isn’t just Prof Brock keeping him up this time. It’s Carnage.

So far, it’s been a mixture of luck and good will that has saved Peter from the symbiote infection of New York City. Had Venom or Carnage—what’s with these Hot Topic names anyway?—wanted Peter dead, he’d be twelve feet under now. It’s been a while since Peter’s been outmatched.

He grabs his phone up off the side of his bed with the intention of playing Tetris until he falls asleep. But fitting the colorful blocks together isn’t as distracting as it’s been in the past, and Peter’s thumb opens the messaging app as if under its own control.

“Who’s up at 3 AM?” Peter whispers to himself. And then, “Oh, duh.” 

He taps out a message to Mr. Stark, _What do you know about a symbiote named Carnage?_

To his surprise, the response is nearly instantaneous, _Sounds like a passable metal band to me._ And then, _Give me a mo._ And then, two minutes later, _Make that a whole moment._

Peter plays Tetris while he waits. He needs a fucking straight piece, but what else is new?

 _Okay, here's what I got. Goes by, I kid you not, Cletus Kasady,_ Mr. Stark texts back. The ensuing ellipses signal his impending text message. _Serial killer and cannibal. Did hard time in San Fran._

More ellipses. The ellipses fade, then return. Fade, return again. Peter gnaws on his thumbnail. When Mr. Stark texts back a few minutes later, it’s in long a string of text messages: 

 _Looks like the guy just broke out of maximum security._  
_Real heavy hitter._  
_Pushed his granny down some stairs._  
_!!!!_  
_Gonna need to consult some friends about symbiotes._  
_Can’t exactly find one at the zoo._  
_Give me a few weeks. Big guy’s gone off the radar again._

Peter doesn’t get much sleep that night. When he manages to drift off, he has visceral dreams about Carnage, swallowing him whole like a python. Peter wakes from these with a hand clutched to his chest like a 19th century widow. 

In the morning he gets another set of texts from Mr. Stark:  
  
_Read up some more. Big yikes._  
_Do you need backup?_

Peter ignores them both.

 

\---

 

Peter keeps his head down in class, and his eyes keen on the streets. Venom has been making itself scarce of late and continues to make itself scarce through the next few months. And over those next few months, Peter will only see it two times.

But he feels as if he’s being followed all the time. It’s almost comforting.

It’s nearly December when Peter sees Venom next. It’s on a regular Tuesday afternoon, and he’s just thwarted a bank robbery. No injuries despite twelve hostages. Not a single robber got away. And it only took Peter about fifteen minutes.

So, Peter's feeling pretty good about himself. He’s whistling and swinging home when his hair stands on end.

Venom. Venom is following him.

It’s only a moment, it’s only a glimpse, but Peter catches a glimmer of black shifting behind him. He flails mid-swing and redirects himself backwards, but by then it’s too late. Venom is nowhere to be seen and the shiver up his spine has faded into phantom sensation. 

“I miss you,” Peter tells the empty street. It’s not very important, but it’s the truth and makes Peter sad to admit it all the same.

 

\---

 

That night, Peter holds the jacket tight to his chest. He goes through the pockets again, and finds a mass of crumpled receipts jammed into the right pocket. He flattens each one out on his desk with his student ID. Most of them are from bars and gas stations. A pack of cigarettes here. Three bottles of beer there. The picture of Venom's human counterpart that these receipts paint isn't very complete, but Peter gets the sense that he's not so great at feeding himself. Or taking care of himself. Whoever this guy is.  
  
Most of the addresses of these receipts aren't too far from campus, from Peter. He flatters himself for a moment, wondering if Venom has been stalking him. There is certainly evidence that Venom has kept tabs on him. For starters, there's a receipt from the bar that Peter frequents with other students. And another from the Walgreens closest to campus for a single lighter and a candy bar.

There's even a receipt for a small black coffee from Peter's favorite coffeeshop on Amsterdam. It's dated September 19th. Peter goes through his text messages from that date, trying to remember if he got coffee on the 19th. There's a text from Ned about seeing _The Nun_ over the weekend. There's another from his study group reminding him that they're meeting the next day. And another from May, asking if he's seen her muffin pan.

He honestly can't remember if he went for coffee on September the 19th, but manages to talk himself into the possibility that he was there. He had class that day, and most days that he has class Peter is at least tempted by coffee. There's a possibility that he went for coffee. A good possibility. A good possibility that he and Venom's human counterpart have been in the same room. At the same time.

It's possible. Maybe even probable.

Peter lies flat on his back with his phone resting on his chest, thinking about breathing the same air. His phone buzzes against his sternum. A text from Mr. Stark:  _Emailed a zip drive on Kasady/Carnage. Forwarded to Karen, too._ Peter locks his phone and goes back to staring at the ceiling.

He gets another text a few minutes later,  _No need to thank me._

Peter sends a heartfelt picture of his middle finger, followed by a text reading,  _But seriously thank you._ He can't bring himself to look at the zip drive, though. Peter's had it about up to here with symbiotes and looking at another one just makes his heart hurt.  
  
He stuffs all the receipts back in the pockets and goes to bed.

 

\---

 

The second, and final, time he sees Venom, it’s a godsend. 

Peter is out looking for it. Again. Because he has no life. Or self respect. He’s checked out all of Venom’s old haunts—abandoned warehouses, sewers, the junkyard in New Jersey—and now he’s scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel. He thinks back to the first place he found Venom. It was in a seedy alley shadowing that homeless guy. 

Peter finds a symbiote in that alley, just not the one he’s been looking for.

He knows it isn’t Venom the second he senses the dark presence behind him. Venom doesn't make him feel like this. His whole body tenses, static crackling under his skin, and he turns slowly.

It’s Carnage, of course. Massive and spindly thin as if starving. Maybe it is starving. Maybe Peter is its next meal.

“Mr. Stark sent that research about symbiotes,” Karen says helpfully. Peter is so glad that she’s here with him, that he’s not alone right now. “Would you like to review that now?”

“Yes, please,” Peter whispers. Acting on instinct, he flings a web up on a windowsill and launches himself up and away from Carnage, several yards away from its head but not its reach. If Carnage is like Venom, there's no limit to its arms.

It just considers him from the ground, grinning that glimmering symbiotic grin.

“Weaknesses include frequencies above 6,000 hertz—”

“Oh, great,” Peter says, looking around for anything that could possibly emit that kind of sound. “I’ll just start yodeling or something, then.”

“And,” Karen says, cutting off Peter’s hysteria, “To a lesser extent: fire.”

“Okay, yeah,” Peter laughs, “I can do that.”

“What are you chattering to yourself about up there?” Carnage asks. It is beginning to seep up the sides of the wall, making its way towards Peter. The movement of its body is different than Venom's. More fluid, less…human.

“Oh, you know, just…uh…gossip,” Peter says, blindly crab-crawling backwards up the wall away from it. “You know, still not over the Brangelina split. Lots of questions. Who’s gonna have custody of all those kids, you know?”

Carnage advances still. Peter is running out of wall. He tenses to make a jump for it.

“Uh. Um. So, yeah. That’s my 'About me.' What about you? Uh, what’s up? What’s, uh, what can I do you for?”

“You’re an odd one, Spider-Man,” Carnage says, approaching closer. “And with such _bad_ luck.”

Before he can leap away, Peter’s feet are engulfed in sticky black webbing. Carnage drags him down towards its open mouth. A mouth that is spread wide, an obtuse angle larger than its own head. Wider than Peter’s body.

Wild-eyed, Peter kicks down against the sludge of Carnage. He can’t get purchase. It’s like kicking an oil spill. Like trying to climb tar. He could die. He could die and there wouldn’t even be a body for May to bury because he’s gonna _be eaten._

“Peter,” Karen reminds, “You have blaster canons in your heels. I’ll go ahead and activate them in three, two, one…”

Peter’s heels ignite, and Carnage shrivels away, screeching and twitching. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough room for Peter to scramble away. He makes a mad dash towards campus. There’s a library with a bell tower there, and they aren’t too far. That should do it. Peter can do this.

He doesn’t make it.

Carnage drags him down by the ankles and slams him to the pavement mid-swing. From the sounds made by the pedestrians scattering around, Peter must hit the ground pretty hard. Hard enough to crack the sidewalk anyway. 

Peter can’t catch a break; Carnage jumps immediately down after him. With the great, sticky mass of its body, the symbiote presses Peter down into the ground. Its jaw opens wide, revealing a jumble of needle-long teeth. Drool drips down onto Peter’s forehead.

“So, uh,” Peter says to Karen. “This guy’s gonna actually eat me here in a second. Can we blast it again?” 

“Canon blasters need 45 seconds to recharge. T-minus 20 seconds.”

Carnage snaps its jaws after Peter’s legs. He only narrowly avoids the clamp of its teeth; it catches his shin and gulps down the scrap of suit it manages to catch in its maw.

“Peter,” Karen’s voice is firm with concern. “Should I call—”

“Nope, I got it,” Peter says and kicks his feet up, his heels digging into Carnage’s neck, pushing it back just enough to breathe. “How much longer on that recharge?” 

“Firing in five, four…” 

Karen never finishes the count down. Carnage is ripped back from Peter with a terrible snarl that Peter immediately recognizes as Venom’s. _Venom._ Peter is so relieved to see it. He lets out a soft, “Oh, thank fuck.”

Venom pries Carnage off of Peter. It grips Carnage by either side of its head, sinking its claws into the black, and _rips its head apart._ For a moment, Peter can see the faint ginger of a human’s head under all that black murk.

“Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you,” Venom growls.

“Ha. I get a kick out of you, Venom." That’s a human voice, accented and singular, coming from inside Carnage. The ginger head turns, and _yup_ there’s a human face in there. That must be…shit, what was his name? Butch Cassidy?

"You hear that, kid?" he says from within Carnage. "You belong to them.”

"Damn straight he does," Venom growls as it sinks its teeth into Carnage's throat and rips more black ooze off the man inside.

At that, Carnage reassembles its head and shoves Venom off itself. “See you two around,” it says, dual-voices again, and sprints off down the street. Well, that's just about the weirdest thing Peter's ever seen. Ever.

Peter expects Venom to chase after them, but instead it whips around to face him. It picks Peter up instantly, tendril searching over Peter’s body looking for signs of damage. There are no pedestrians left on the street, but Peter wouldn’t mind if they were there and watching.

“Are you alright?” it demands, an edge to its voice.

Peter nods, pressing his elbows against Venom’s forearms so he can sit up a little. Venom is holding him so that they’re face to face. Peter’s legs are scrunched up between them with his knees against its chest. Under the mask, Peter smiles.

“I had it under control.”

Venom gurgles its strange laugh. Oh, how Peter missed that laugh. “You and I view control very differently, then.”

“Where have you been?” Peter asks suddenly. “Did I do something? Are you—”

“It’s not you,” Venom says, the lilt of sympathy in its voice distinctly human. “You’re… _perfect._ ” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re a great guy. Yadda yadda.”

"Yadda yadda?" Venom repeats, confused.

Peter unfolds himself from Venom’s limbs, with a sigh. “Props to you, though. Most people don’t rescue me from aliens before a breakup. So, uh, points for creativity, and for not ghosting me completely, I guess, and…what are you doing?”

Venom hasn’t let Peter down. No, it restrains his flailing limbs with ease. When it has him gathered up against it just as it likes, Venom tucks its face against Peter’s neck and inhales deeply. It grazes its teeth over his throat, a kiss, and nudges its nose under his jaw. The hand braced against the small of Peter's back spreads, Venom's thumb moving against the notches of his spine. Peter lets his body go slack.

“We miss you too, little one,” it says.

Peter tries to close a hand around its bicep, tries to turn his head to look at it, but he’s being lowered to the ground. His eyes close in grim acceptance. There's no stopping Venom when it wants something.  
  
When Peter opens his eyes, Venom is gone.

 

\---

 

So, yeah.  
  
The semester wraps up, and Peter squeaks by with a perfect 4.0. Meaning, so long as he doesn’t fuck up next semester, he’ll graduate summa cum laude. Peter can imagine how proud May will be upon graduation, can picture her eyes misting up under her glasses as she insist, "No, no, I'm not crying."

What's more impressive? Peter has managed to avoid eye contact with Professor Brock for nearly half a semester.

When Peter drops his final essay off at Prof Brock’s office, he’s half-hoping that he’ll be in there so they can talk. Maybe even just a little. Just enough to clear the air between them.  
  
Prof Brock is in his office; Peter can hear him move in there with his advanced hearing, but the door is locked. So, Peter slips his paper under the door with a sticky note on top that reads, _For what it’s worth, it was a great class,_ complete with a tiny smiley face.

Peter can hear Eddie’s irritated sigh through the door.

And what can Peter say? He’s an emotional dude; tears crawl up his ducts and sting his eyes. He only barely manages to tuck himself into the single-stall bathroom down the hall before he’s full-out crying.

Again.

Today, like most days this winter, Peter wore Venom’s jacket over a hoodie and flannel. He finds some fresh tissues neatly folded amongst the old receipts in the pockets. There’s no reason why it should, but their presence makes him feel better.

He manages to get himself together pretty quickly, though. Peter is a crier, sure, but he’s not much for self-pity. Within twenty minutes, he’s managed to stop up the tears and dry his face. A look in the mirror tells him that he’s more or less presentable, so he ventures out into the hall.

He’s just in time to see Professor Brock rounding the corner towards the exit. The moment Peter sees the broad of his back, his hair stands up on end.

Weird.

He shouldn’t follow him; it’s an invasion of privacy, for one thing. And for another, Peter doesn’t even have his spidey suit with him. He shouldn’t follow him. 

But then again, what if Prof Brock is in _danger?_ Why else would Peter’s senses be acting up like this? What if he bleeds out in a gutter somewhere and Spider-Man could have prevented the whole thing?

Peter can imagine the headlines now: “Local Professor Dies Horrible Death Because Dimwit Spider-Man Couldn’t Get His Shit Together.”

Well, he can't very well let _that_ happen. Peter pulls his hood up over his head and hopes for the best.

Prof Brock doesn’t seem to be in imminent danger, but he’s acting strange as he walks down the streets of NYC. His path isn’t carving in one clear direction. He’ll start down one street and then abruptly turn in the opposite direction. It occurs to Peter that Prof Brock might be aware that he’s being followed, but that doesn’t explain why Peter’s spidey-senses are all out of whack. Maybe they’re _both_ being followed.

What’s weirder is that Prof Brock is _talking_ to himself. And not just talking, but _arguing._ Heatedly.

Peter can’t catch all of it, but he manages to hear snippets like, “You’re making yourself miserable,” and “Still don’t feel right to me…we got bigger fish to fry.”

And finally, after some quiet consternation, Prof Brock mumbles to himself, “We’ve seen Kasady around there the most.” 

This piques Peter’s interest. Cassidy? As in Butch Cassidy and the Carnage Kid? Strange. Very strange. And definitely worth looking into. Peter pulls on the drawstrings of his hoodie to better obscure his face, making more of a consternated effort to track him.

Peter follows Prof Brock pretty closely for a few blocks, but eventually loses him around a corner. He looks for him in the surrounding streets and alleyways, but no dice. Professor Eddie Brock has vanished. Even stranger. 

Peter beats his fist against the brick wall he was scaling. How on earth did Peter lose his slow-moving professor?  _A professor,_ for chrissakes. Frustrated, still edgy and alight with his agitated spidey-senses, he drops to the ground and heads towards home. 

But as he turns around, Peter smacks dead into somebody’s chest. A solid wall of a person. “Oh, hey, sorry about that—” Peter looks up and all the blood drains from his face. His limbs go weak. It’s Carnage.

Maybe Carnage was right. Maybe Peter has really bad luck.

He can’t even scream or run away, they're so close that Carnage has already totally engulfed him. Peter struggles against the mass, but without his suit, he’s completely defenseless. No canons. No Karen. No chance.

Uh oh.

Within moments, his arms are pinned to his sides, legs forced together tightly. Even when he thrashes his body from side to side, he can't move an inch. The black mass of Carnage has overtaken his chest and creeps up his throat. 

“I can feel your blood in your veins,” Carnage whispers, its ugly face forming from the mass in front of Peter. “I’ll fill my mouth with it. Your head will be like a grape, crushed under my molars. Juicy Spider-Man.” 

 _Fuck._ Of course he knows Peter's alter-ego. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he? 

“Wuh-woah,” Peter can barely manage to speak; it feels like there’s a truck on his chest. “Who said anything about Spider-Man?”

Carnage just squeezes down hard. "Nice to meet you, Peter."

Two can play at that game. Peter knows Carnage's less than mild-mannered alter-ego too. "Hey, so, you ever hear of this really old movie?  _Butch Cassidy and the_ \--"

"What a mouth!" Carnage interrupts. It laughs then, a high hollering sound that makes Peter pant with fear.

“Or maybe,” it continues, giving Peter a hard squeeze. “Maybe first, I’ll rip open your stomach. Eviscerate you. So, you can watch me feast on your guts. I bet you'll have a lot to say about that. What do you think?”

Holy shit. Peter’s gonna die.

The only mobility he has left now is in his hands. He searches the pockets of the jacket for anything, literally _anything_ , that could help. He finds three pens in the left pocket. There’s a bunch of crumpled receipts in the left. And…Peter closes his hand around a rectangular, flat shape—hoping beyond hope that it is a….

_A lighter._

Peter cracks open the lighter in his hand. The whole pocket of receipts is instantly soaked with lighter fluid, along with the denim itself and Peter's hand. He shifts the flint wheel under his thumb.

“It’s really nice of you to let me choose how I’ll be gruesomely cannibalized,” Peter says, his voice high from lack of air. “How does flambé sound?” 

Carnage’s face shifts in confusion, just as Peter ignites the lighter.

It isn’t a big fire, at least not as big as Peter had hoped. The receipts catch fire quickly and the whole pocket goes ablaze. But they don't stay lit for long. Not even long enough for Peter to get away. It’s only really enough to piss Carnage off.

And boy, is Carnage pissed. 

With its hands, Carnage rips Peter out of itself by his ankles and slams him to the ground. His whole body cracks down against the pavement like a whip snapping. First his knees hit concrete, then the edge of his hip, and the crunch of his ribs. Peter’s temple hits the sharp angle of the curb. And okay,  _ouch._

That first blow knocks the breath from him, sure, but then Carnage does it again and again and _again._  Peter has no sense of gravity, no understanding of up or down. Blackness trickles into Peter’s vision.

He lets out a whine, a soft plaintive sound. 

Carnage draws back Peter’s body, letting him take a moment to really consider the impending impact. The hair rises along Peter's arms. Thanks a lot, spidey-senses. Alerting Peter to the obvious: 

He’s going to die.

Carnage heaves him to the ground, there’s a terrible crackle of breaking bones, and Peter’s world goes black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for all your support. I definitely couldn't pull off these updates without y'all. Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks mean the world to me. I notice and treasure each one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for gore!

_** SEVERAL MONTHS AGO… ** _

Eddie Brock is sitting in his office chair, grading stack after stack of papers, when Peter Parker enters. The kid is wearing Eddie's jacket, delectably consumed by the bulk of denim. Eddie opens his mouth, ready to tell him off, but Peter has already rounded his desk.

“I'm an adult, and I want this,” Peter says, his voice the low tenor he uses when he masquerades as Spider-Man. There’s so much resolve in that tone that Eddie finds himself momentarily and dizzyingly incapacitated. "You already have me. Why not have me some more?"

And now he has a lapful of Peter Parker.

“We shouldn’t,” Eddie says, but his hands are on Parker’s hips, stroking over the iliac crest. So narrow, a perfect fit in the big fold of his palm. And Peter is so warm in his hold, the press of his thighs soft and inviting.

Eddie tucks his face into Peter’s neck and smells his skin. It’s Spider-Man’s scent, he’d recognize the mix of sweat and soap anywhere, but now he can get his fill of that scent without the suit’s fabric in the way. It’s delicious. Eddie’s mouth fills with saliva and he feels hollow inside until his hands are tucked inside Peter’s corduroys and he’s dragging his lower lip against Peter’s pulse point. The plush of his ass fills Eddie’s palms, when he tucks his thumbs between Parker’s cheeks, the muscle there clenches tightly.

Peter Parker is lithe, but that slim frame is coiled with the musculature of a gymnast. Of Spider-Man.

The way he shudders sets fire to Eddie’s insides. He scoops him up by the hips and drops him on his desk, devil may care what happens to the stacks of paper underneath them. Eddie gets Peter’s legs up over his shoulders, folding him in half. Peter’s shoulders are braced on the desk, the rest of him pinned up against the bulk of Eddie. Having him under him like that makes Eddie feel big, feel powerful.

And without the mask in the way, Eddie can see each minute expression that passes over Peter’s face. The quiver of his lower lip. The way his brow knits when Eddie nudges his stiff cock up against him. Or the way his mouth goes a little slack when Eddie rubs his scruff against the inside of his thigh.

Eddie kisses the inside of his delicious knee, sighing against the delicate skin there. There’s so much here, so much of Peter that he wants to touch, hold, grab. He wishes there was more time. He wishes he had more hands.

Hold up.

Eddie _does_ have more hands, a lot of hands and limbs; he has Venom. Where the hell is Venom? And oh fucking fuck—he’s _dreaming._

\---

 

Eddie Brock is accustomed to quitting bad habits. He chewed his nails until his high school girlfriend told him it was disgusting. So, he quit. He was a chain smoker for years until he realized he was too poor for lung cancer. So, he quit. He ate frozen food for every meal until Venom started grumbling about nutrients. So, he (mostly) quit. Hell, Eddie was a _Catholic_ since birth until he realized he wasn’t. So, he quit. 

So yeah, Eddie Brock is pretty good at quitting things.

Quitting Peter Parker, and thus Spider-Man, cold turkey is harder than Eddie expected. The temptation is ever present, even when Parker doesn’t show up to class. Worse, Eddie has been plagued with dreams of _that_ nature since he snubbed them both. He didn’t know a body could go in withdrawal for sex, but his certainly has.

At least, it’s gone in withdrawal for sex with Peter Parker.

“That was some dream,” Venom hums sleepily, folding its many limbs over Eddie’s side. (Before they bonded, Eddie thought he knew what spooning was, but Venom brings new connotations to the position. Venom brings new connotations to all sorts of things: eating, masturbating, criminal justice…)

“Shut up,” Eddie says, but rests a hand over one of the tendrils, pulling Venom more tightly around himself. 

“Wasn’t my dream,” Venom says, “If it was my dream, we would have actually fucked.”

“Shut up and go back to sleep, then.”

Venom slips a tendril under Eddie’s cheek, pillowing his head. He rubs his jaw against it, as close as he’ll get to apologizing tonight. He falls back asleep.

 

\---

 

When Eddie wakes up, he’s not in his bed. He’s surrounded by Venom, cocooned safe and warm in the black. He’d assume that Venom had just overtaken him while they sleep, as it often does, but gravity tells him they’re standing, and he can hear cars passing by. Fucking symbiotes. 

“Where are we?” he asks groggily, uncaring of his volume.

 _Shh,_ Venom hushes him. _I’ll show you if you promise not to make a sound._

The mask of Venom’s face filters away and Eddie gasps. In instant response, blackness presses against Eddie’s mouth. Silencing him.

_You promised you’d be quiet!_

_You dragged me out here while I was fucking unconscious and now here we are—_ Eddie can’t even say it.

Venom has glued them to the side of a Columbia dorm, so they can peer into Peter Parker’s window. In Venom’s defense, Peter seems to just be sleeping face down in bed. He looks just as he did in Eddie’s dream: completely edible.

Eddie breathes through his mouth to quiet his exhale, filtered through Venom’s teeth. They fog the glass of Peter’s window. 

_We’re really just gonna watch him sleep, huh?_

_You’re not paying attention, Eddie._

Eddie squints, trying to see in the dim light of Peter’s desktop lamp. The cramped dorm room is messy, Peter’s desk scattered with dismantled electronics and textbooks for class. It also seems that Peter doesn’t make much use of his closet; all his clothing is discarded haphazardly on the floor. A man after Eddie’s own heart. 

“Focus,” Venom growls, a rumble low enough for only Eddie to hear. Venom forces their head back to Peter Parker’s prone form on the bed. Eddie catches sight of the edge of his jacket, wrapped backwards around Peter.

_Keep looking._

There’s a shift in Peter’s hips, a slow flex down towards the mattress. And, of course, he could just be turning in his sleep. This could all be very innocent, and Eddie doesn’t necessarily have to slink home feeling like a dirty old man.

But Eddie Brock is many things, and a dirty old man is one of them. Because he’s not just watching Peter Parker—his student—sleep. He’s watching Peter Parker—his student—jerk off. Hell, he’s watching Peter Parker jerk off into the jacket he gave him so that Spider-Man— _still his student_ —wouldn’t have to walk home half-naked. 

Well, at least Venom will keep him company in hell.

 _Don’t be so dramatic,_ Venom chastises, obviously growing tired of Eddie’s moralism. _He’s thinking about us._

Eddie watches Parker rut down into the jacket, can imagine the soft sounds he must be making and the way that his thighs are trembling under the sheets. He remembers holding those thighs in Venom’s hands, maneuvering that body until it was right where they wanted it and how they wanted it.

_He’s thinking about **you**._

_I am us,_ Venom says, and Eddie can taste the sour note of its hurt.

Eddie balks. He forgets, now that he shares an identity with someone else, that all the self-deprecating shit isn’t just angled at himself. When he hates himself, Eddie is really hating Venom too.

As penance, he lets them stay until Peter is gasping into his pillow, fingers destroying the pinewood of his bed frame. They watch his body curl and tremble with orgasm, and Venom gives a hungry groan, drool dripping down from the corners of his mouth.

 _Maybe next semester,_ Eddie promises.

 

\---

They don't visit every night. At least, not that Eddie is aware of. But they visit frequently enough. Frequently, Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night to find that Venom had dragged him out into the cold just to breathe on the glass of Peter Parker’s dorm room. To be honest, he doesn't hate it, waking up nestled inside Venom, watching Parker sleep in his snug twin bed. But it isn't right.

At Eddie's urging, they leave after no more than fifteen minutes. Eddie requested five, Venom thirty, and this is the compromise. They only ever come when they're certain Peter will be asleep; the kid has a preternatural sense of when Venom is around. 

It's nice, coming to see him. Even if it is fucking up Eddie's own sleep schedule. And it sets Venom at ease, knowing that the boy is safe in bed.

One night, they're leaning up against the window, breathlessly watching Peter in the throes of a nightmare.  _We should wake him,_ Venom says. They're practically molded against the window now. If Venom could phase through glass, they'd be on Parker's dorm floor now.

Eddie is coming up with an argument, when a shadow falls over them. Carnage. A growl bubbles up in their chest. By the time the sound makes it to their throat, Venom has Eddie enveloped completely, pressing protectively around him.

"I thought we taught you your lesson," Venom says, its voice just barely above a whisper.

Carnage grins its ugly, toothy snarl wide enough to give them a glimpse of Kasady's pink skin underneath. "Seems you've formed quite the attachment," it says. "Two humans, Venom? Your host wasn't enough for you?"

Eddie rankles, but Venom casts a look back to Peter. He's curled in on himself against whatever terror crouches in his subconscious. It grins at Carnage. "You tell me. You're here too."

"I'm not here for the boy," Carnage snaps abruptly, and they are taken aback by the tremor of emotion in its voice. They've insulted it. Deeply, by the way its face wrinkles into a sneer and its voice shakes. "His suffering will be for _your_ sake. The both of you."

Venom makes a swipe for it then, snarling and puffing its form up to its biggest size. Carnage dodges it easily, already melting into the black. Cackling to itself as it goes.

Venom stays posted at the window, eyes scanning the dark. They spend the night there, glued to the exterior of Peter's room, keeping guard. Eddie dozes occasionally, cradled inside of Venom.

Venom doesn't sleep.

 

\---

 

**_ MEANWHILE… _ **

Eddie Brock is a liar. Or, at least, that’s what Venom is thinking as they leave the building at the end of the semester. All the students have turned their papers in, and Eddie is ready to start winter break. If Venom had its way, when Peter Parker darkened Eddie's doorstep this afternoon, they would have re-enacted some of Eddie’s more explicit dreams all over his desk.

_He was in our jacket._

“My jacket,” Eddie corrects as he exits the journalism building. He’s got Peter Parker’s paper at the bottom of the pile of papers on his desk, but he’s not really planning on reading it. The rest of his students will be lucky if they get a skim. “His professor’s jacket.”

_We’re not his professor anymore._

“They say a teacher’s lessons last a lifetime.”

_Bullshit. You’re being stubborn._

“Yup.” 

 _Just to make me miserable._

“Nope. You’re making yourself miserable—”

_Am not._

“—by not dropping it.”

 _He’s not our student anymore,_ Venom points out. _We can do whatever we want now._

“Still don’t feel right to me,” Eddie grumbles back. “Besides, we got bigger fish to fry.” 

 _Carnage,_ Venom agrees. And finally, common ground after months on end of arguing over Peter Parker. Of Venom dragging Eddie out of bed at night just to watch Peter sleep in his dorm. Of skulking after Spider-Man, of rescuing him from Carnage and then ripping themselves away once they know he’s safe.

They both think back to the way that Carnage had pinned Spider-Man, _Peter Parker,_ to the ground. How close it was to eating him when they’d arrived. What could have happened if they hadn’t arrived.

Under Eddie’s skin, Venom shivers.

“Let’s go back to that sex club,” Eddie suggests. “We’ve seen Kasady around there the most.” 

_Alright, but you’re going the wrong direction._

Eddie makes an abrupt U-turn, and lets Venom tug their body down a street towards the edge of town. Less pedestrians this way. Venom feels that the other symbiote is close, prowling somewhere nearby.

 _Also,_ Venom says blithely, _Peter Parker is following us._

It takes an enormous amount of self-restraint for Eddie to keep himself from whipping his head around. The only time he could get a good look at Peter Parker was during class, when Parker’s head is ducked down over his notebook.

“When were you gonna tell me?” Eddie grumbles lowering his voice.

_Eh. I was hoping he’d catch us._

Eddie shrugs it off. They ditch Parker when Venom overtakes Eddie. Together, they ooze down into the sewer. They watch Parker’s feet pass from the gutter, clad in converse high tops. He pauses for a moment, clearly trying to trail Eddie, but eventually must turn around.

It’s still incredible to Eddie that Peter Parker—dweeby, sweet kid from his Ethics in Journalism class—could be the same person as Spider-Man. Just thinking about it sends waves of guilt rolling through his body, nausea churning in his stomach.

At Eddie's insistence--he has more self control than Venom about these things, clearly--they wait in the gutters for Parker to pass and then slink down into the sewers. Time to find Carnage.

They bicker over which way is north, and then they argue whether it’ll be faster to head to their destination via street or sewer. They didn’t use to argue like this, over everything; Peter Parker is causing a rift between them. Something has to give soon.

Venom is threatening to just take control of their body and haul Eddie along for the ride whether he likes it or not _goddamn it just trust me for once, Eddie_ —when they hear it.

A plaintive, strangled moan. Peter Parker. 

There’s no reason they should hear it; it isn’t much louder than the raw sewage rushing by them or the cars overhead. But as if the pitch of Parker’s voice was made for them to hear, they hear it. They tear their way from the underground.

Fully formed as Venom, they sprint around the corner and…there he is. Peter Parker. At Carnage’s feet.

_He's not moving._

And it’s one thing to see Spider-Man down for the count, fully suited and mysterious behind the mask. One thing to see capable Spider-Man take a hit and then get back up. But Peter Parker, vulnerable and _in Eddie’s jacket goddamn it_ , doesn’t look like Spider-Man right now.

He looks broken. 

Eddie can’t describe the anger that consumes him next. There’s something distinctly primoridal in the way that anger latches to Venom’s and morphs into something bloodthirsty and mindless. Eddie isn't all there for what happens next.

One moment, they are standing several yards from the scene. The next, Venom’s claws are suck into Carnage’s back. They are standing on its spine, Carnage hunched over and howling as Venom rips great chunks from Carnage’s body. Each mouthful they chomp off, they swallow.

And they don’t stop, not even when they taste human flesh and Kasady is squealing in pain. They want to do worse to him. To them both. They want to eat Carnage’s head, swallow his skull, and suck on his carotid artery like a straw.

Then they’ll rip out Kasady’s gory spine and wear it like a feather boa. 

Typically, Carnage outmatches Venom in spades. It's less susceptible to symbiote weaknesses, like fire and soundwaves, and twice as physically strong. But their rage gives them an edge. They target the delicate human inside Carnage, exploiting Kasady as a weakness, until they can feel the tremulous bond between them begin to sever. Kasady is dying inside of Carnage and it cannot heal him fast enough.

When Carnage attempts to exploit the same weakness--clawing and ripping at Eddie--Venom buckles down around him, protective and secure. The threat to Eddie only increases its fury. Their bond is stronger, and it's enough.

Carnage dumps Peter to the ground and rips itself from Venom’s jaws. “Fuck, _fine,_ ” Kasady spits from inside Carnage, “We’ll leave the kid alone.”

It's all very disturbing, but Kasady’s crying doesn’t convince Venom; they tear away a significant segment of Kasady’s shoulder as Carnage flees. But drop it in favor of Peter Parker, still immobile on the ground.

The sight of Peter’s body unceremoniously crumpled on the pavement sets off the animal in Eddie. He isn't breathing, isn't moving. His vision sharpens to the singular point of Peter, then blurs. The world becomes distant.  _And Carnage is still alive._

He loses himself, but Venom is there to find him.

“Parker first,” Venom says, forcing them to remain still even as Carnage lopes away. Injured, but alive.

Unlikely as it may seem, Venom’s desire to protect the innocent has always been stronger than its sense of vengeance.

They take up Peter in their arms and press Eddie’s ear to his chest. For a moment, there is nothing. Then, a heartbeat, strong and determined, thuds under their ear. Peter’s chest rises and falls, shallowly breathing but breathing all the same. _Alive._

Regret plummets through Eddie's esophagus and stomach. They should have been there for this. The moment Peter arrived, Eddie should have flung open his office door and hauled Peter inside. They could be talking in his office right now, they could be walking through campus, they could be tucked up in Eddie’s apartment. Instead, Eddie left Peter _alone to_ fend for himself and now he’s—

 _Alive,_ Venom reminds kindly, squeezing around Eddie in a semblance of an embrace.  _He’s alive because of us._

He vomits then, Eddie and thus Venom both. The blend of Carnage and Kasady's flesh tastes worse coming up, much worse. Pooling on the pavement, everything in their stomach seems slicked with blood due to Carnage’s red tinge. Disgusting, but Eddie feels better afterwards. Clears his head some. 

They can’t leave Peter here on the street, can’t take him to a hospital, can’t take him back to the dorm where Carnage might find him.

 _Some place safe,_ Eddie pleads with Venom.

He can sense the safe place in Venom’s mind, a primal urge to return to the safety of the cave. Eddie sighs, but concedes to Venom’s point. Maybe it’s time he let Venom call some of the shots about Peter. Time to show some trust. Venom nods as they come to a mute agreement.

Peter Parker will be coming home with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and all that good stuff. You guys are amazing.
> 
> And to K: I know you have discovered my secret Venom/Spider-Man fanfic, and dinner is on me tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter Parker awakes with a startled yelp. He pats his hands over his body, feeling for injuries, feeling that his body is really there.

“Huh,” he mutters when he finds the whole thing--legs, arms, torso, it's all there--in tact, “Really thought I’d died that time.”

Something turns on behind him, a whirring noise coming to life. It's a metal heater, the plug in kind, positioned right towards the bed. The bed. It’s only now that Peter recognizes that he’s in a bed. Not just _on_ a bed, but tucked _into_ its covers. Peter flings them off, horrified by the insinuation that Carnage put him here.

But when he inspects himself, his clothes are still on, and he’s not sore anywhere. The waistband of his boxers are still double folded over the elastic, something Peter does when the elastic band is too itchy.

It’s not a good feeling, only being mostly sure that he wasn’t assaulted while unconscious. But it’s all he has. He’ll have to take it.

Peter gets out of the bed slowly, looking around the room. It’s a small and stark room, but definitely someone’s actual, lived-in bedroom. The room is mainly decorated by bookshelves and messy stacks of magazines and…are those _CDs_? How old is this guy? If Peter had his phone on him, he’d be tempted to snap a picture. He’d caption it, _In the lair with…_

Wait. Why the hell would Kasady bring him back to his actual house?

Peter’s heart picks up, a quick staccato against his ribs. If he’s in the house, then certainly Kasady must be here too. The door to the bedroom is open, so Peter presses flat against the wall next to it to listen and peer out into the dark hall. No movement out there, but every hair on Peter’s body is stood on end. Best be careful. 

He slips down the hall quietly, the kitchen coming into slow view. The man chopping carrots at the counter isn’t Kasady; the build is all wrong, and he doesn't have Kasady's bright red hair. Peter waits until he turns in profile and has to clap both hands over his mouth to muffle the inevitable gasp.

It’s _Professor Brock._

Prof Brock turns back around and dumps two handfuls of chopped carrots into a large pot on the stove. He doesn't seem to be under any duress; the guy doesn't even have his shoes on. He’s mumbling to himself, thoroughly distracted.

Haha, fuck this. Peter is getting the hell out.

Peter will have to creep by the kitchen, but the front door is in sight. Directly across from the kitchen. He could make a run for it. He should make a run for it.

He’s just crouching to slink through the dark when he sees it: sticky black webbing creeping up Prof Brock’s calves and thighs. He doesn’t seem to notice Carnage overtaking him, completely oblivious. Peter acts on instinct.

No webshooters means he has to get inventive with what he has: his body and the advantage of surprise. Peter launches himself at Eddie, knocking him to the floor while Peter gets between him and the symbiote.

The black amorphous mass rises above them, looking down on Peter’s struggle with insultingly calm curiosity. Peter kicks his feet up against it, still lodged between the two, and extends his body to pry them apart.

“Professor Brock!” Peter yells. “Run!”

Frustratingly, Eddie seems immobilized on the floor. This happens sometimes: civilians just freeze. May says it’s because they’re bodies are telling them to do so many things at once, they can’t decide. Peter thinks it’s because they want to make his job harder.

“Eddie!” Peter snaps, more firmly this time because he can’t keep Carnage off forever. “You need to _run!_ ”

A face forms from the black, but it isn’t Carnage’s. “He thinks I’m attacking you,” Venom says, its tone fond and wondrous.

A tendril has wrapped around Peter’s ankle where it rubs against the bone in a comforting circle. Peter opens his mouth to respond, but then Eddie is speaking behind him. Peter whips his head around to see Eddie coming up on his elbows. Peter is leaned up between Eddie’s legs in this position, ankle still held up by Venom.

“Yeah, well when he sees the way you hog the couch, he’ll know that I’m constantly under attack.” Eddie is grinning that predatory and wide grin that looks so much like…

Like Venom. 

Catching on, Peter hides his face in his hands. “Ohh, noo,” he groans. “Oh, no no  _no._  This whole time?”

Venom is sliding past Peter, melting back into Eddie until it's completely absorbed. Because Eddie, Professor Eddie Brock, is Venom’s host.

“This whole time,” they affirm in tandem, Eddie's voice mangled by Venom's growling overlay. Eddie stands up from the ground, extending a palm to Peter as he asks, “Want a hand?”

He can't believe it. Really, just can't believe that he missed something like this. Explains the sudden radio silence from Venom. Explains why his hair stands on end whenever Eddie is around. Numb from this new information, Peter nods, and then he’s being hoisted up under his arm pits. Lifted by Venom's tendrils hooked his arms.

“So,” he says, finding his feet under him. “This explains a lot.”

Eddie laughs, but the sound isn’t cruel. It just sounds like he likes Peter, and Peter hasn’t felt particularly liked by him in a while. He smiles up at him and Eddie smiles back, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

And then Peter pushes him away. Eddie’s look of surprise is comical, but Peter doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even let his expression waver.

“You were kind of a jerk to me,” he says by way of explanation. “You could have _told_ me. What did you think would happen if you just told me?”

Eddie’s mouth opens and then slowly shuts, his teeth clicking closed before his lips. He opens it again, then closes it again. Looks away and rubs the back of his head. He shrugs. Maybe he's talking to himself, but he sure as hell isn't talking to Peter.

Peter doesn’t really know what to do with that kind of response. Now that the adrenaline has fizzled from his system, the ache in his body returns. He’s got several broken bones just barely on the mend, and his head feels full of setting concrete. He wants to go home. He wants to go home  _now._

“Look, we can talk about this later or something. Right now, I just want to sleep this off.” He heads for the door just across the hall. Peter has his hand wrapped around the doorknob. If his arm tremors while he parts the door from its seam, then it’s due to his radial fracture. 

At once, Venom lashes out, slamming the door shut with an amorphous black limb. Peter still has the knob in his hand, and the movement jerks his whole body forward. 

“You _cannot!_ ” it snarls, a sharp tone that it hasn’t yet used on Peter.

For a moment, he is dumbstruck. Then he is angry. Peter gives a hard pull on the doorknob, leveraging the whole weight of his body. The wood of the door creaks, nearly breaks, but Venom holds it shut. Flushing now, embarrassed and furious, Peter shoots a vicious glare to Eddie.

Eddie looks just as lost as Peter. He blinks at the long arm of black webbing that’s erupted from his shoulder and gives a one-armed shrug with his free shoulder.

“I can’t always control Venom,” he explains. “Our relationship is more equivocal than that. A conversation, like any other.”

Peter grinds his teeth, scowling again at the door. Venom has spread its guck over the hinge and edges, effectively sealing him in. He gives another, less motivated, tug at the knob to no avail.

He glances back to Eddie, who seems spaced out in conversation with himself. Oh, not with himself. With Venom. If that’s how this works. If there’s a _him_ and an _it,_ or if they are just a _them._ Or if it’s both.

Peter’s pounding headache burgeons, along with the throbbing pain of his several broken bones. He wants to go home and sleep this off. He's desperate to see May and tell her about everything that happened with Carnage and rest his head in her lap and let her buy him Ethiopian takeout.

Doesn’t he deserve that after this clusterfuck of a day?

There’s a tiny kitchen window above the sink. If Peter can jump through it at a high enough speed, with his feet first and body straight, he’ll fit. It would be easier to aim himself with webshooters, but whatever. He’s gonna have to break the glass too, but he isn’t pressed about that.

He backs away from the door, back into the kitchen.

“Okay, well, thanks for the sleepover,” he says, calculating the angle of the cabinets to the window. “But I need some space.”

He launches himself at the cabinets, arms springing off of them to ricochet towards the window. His body is straight, his speed good, but his ribs are broken.

His ribs are broken. When he crunches up against the cabinets, the pressure is a sharp jab of agony against the broken cartilage and bone. It messes up his angle. Peter hits the ceiling and then drops like a stunned housefly to the floor. 

Reacting fast, Venom lays out flat beneath him, cushioning his fall. But Peter is not in the mood for a rescue. He gets up, clutching his ribs. His eyes drift to the door, hoping to leave this way at least.

Even after that display, Venom guards the door. Peter’s not leaving.

Eddie pulls up a chair for Peter, wincing presumably at the pathetic image he strikes. Peter slumps into it, sighing. 

“Remind me again why I’m not _allowed_ to leave?” Peter is aware that he’s whining.

“You’re injured,” Venom starts. "And we need to--"

Patience lost, Peter cuts in, “This will all heal pretty quickly. By tomorrow, even."

Venom gives a crackling gurgle from Eddie’s chest, a vaguely possessive sound. Its body swells up behind Eddie's, a horrific black mass puffing up to protect Peter, casting a shadow over Eddie.

Peter blinks at them and shakes his head. Not quite disturbed, just…not used to it yet.

“It’s not safe,” Venom says, growing up Eddie's skin now. Eddie remains silent and his reluctance to speak to Peter only increases his irritation. “Carnage could—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Peter snipes and stands from the chair on quaking legs. Venom moves as if to stabilize him, but Peter shoulders past them back towards the bedroom. “Let me know when you decide to let me leave, I guess.”

To their (very small) credit, Venom and Eddie let Peter limp back to the bedroom and lock the door. Fortunately for Peter and his hygiene, their bedroom is connected to a bathroom. He ignores his reflection in the mirror and heads straight for the toilet and shower.

Hot steam fills the cramped bathroom and the damp warmth does wonders for the tightness in Peter’s shoulders and calves. This apartment is pretty grim for somebody Eddie’s age, but the water pressure is good. Good enough to make Peter feel better, even if it's only minutely. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, Peter can feel his bones shifting back together. They won’t be fully healed for another week at least, after the beating he took, but they won’t hurt so much tomorrow. Peter rests his temple against the tiles and spitefully waits for the water to get cold before he gets out.

In the harsh light of the bathroom, he can take exact inventory of his bruises. There’s a dark purple line just above his right knee. A horrid constellation of yellow and green circles his hipbone. His elbow is a deep plum, his shoulder splotchy red from its dislocation.

Peter rubs the steam off the mirror and flinches at the sight of himself. His face is much worse than his body, just because—you know—it’s Peter’s _face._ His jaw is bruised from the hinge to his earlobe. Road burn has scrubbed his cheek raw. A royal blue crowns his temple, darkens his right eye, and lays nobly over the bridge of his nose.

Holy shit. Peter has never looked _this_ bad. Even after a real-life, honest to god _building_ collapsed on top of him. He looks like a man halfway through his journey to death.

Well, it’s no wonder Venom was loathe to see him leave.

Peter can’t bear to wear the clothes that he was brutalized in and, moreover, needs some distance from Venom’s— _Eddie’s_ jacket. He pillages the dresser by the bed, finding some sweats and a long-sleeved shirt in the lowest drawer. The pants end up being a little short--Peter's legs are longer than most--but Peter still cuffs them. The shirt is predictably huge.

As he dresses, his stomach clenches. Peter hasn’t eaten since—he does the quick mental math and rolls his eyes—yesterday morning. There’s a warm, salty smell drifting from the kitchen. If Eddie is trying to lure Peter out with food, he’s sadly mistaken.

But then, Peter spots the note that’s been slid under the door. It reads, _Soup on other side,_ with an arrow pointing towards the door. Peter is suspicious, but he is also a superhero with a supermetabolism. He parts the door and eyes the bowl of soup on its tray. Chicken noodle soup.

Once he has the tray in the room, Peter realizes that it’s not a tray at all but a ridged cookie sheet that Eddie has repurposed as a tray. Peter tucks into the chicken noodle soup instantly. It’s not the kind of chicken noodle he's used to, not a thin broth scattered with limp noodles and scraps of chicken. It is a hearty soup with fat chunks of chicken and crunching bites of carrot. There’s more than just soup on the tray, but half a loaf of sourdough bread and a French press of hot coffee. Eddie pulled out all the stops. 

When he’s finished with the soup, Peter dunks the bread into the leftover broth. Not so much hungry anymore, just sating his appetite. Sipping the coffee, he surveys Eddie’s bookshelves.

Most of his books are academic texts on journalism history and citation style guides and what not. Boring stuff.

But it seems he’s organized his books into three categories, and the academia is just the first. Another is a huddle of pulpy monster books— _Amazing Stories_ and _Sin Monster—_ intermixed with pulpy romance novels— _Harlot in her Heart_ and _Adam and Evil._ These books aren’t ordered alphabetically or even upright, but rather jammed into shelves in stacks.

Peter smiles a little. Can guess who these belong to.

Then there are the books organized alphabetically by author and feature titles like _In Cold Blood_ and _The Road._ There are some detective novels in there too, and more than a few Stephen King paperbacks. But most incongruously, Peter spots a blue hardbacked copy of _Ulysses._ And while Peter didn’t initially peg Eddie as the insufferable intellectual type, he can see it.

Feeling like he’s learned a great deal and absolutely nothing at all, Peter curls back up in the bed. The coffee has warmed him, but the caffeine is no match for how tired Peter gets when he’s healing. He falls asleep instantly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait on this chapter. It's not really an excuse, but I had a ridiculously difficult holiday weekend.
> 
> To make up for it, I'm throwing up an extra chapter now, and planning on an epilogue after that. Thanks for your patience and support! Enjoy the double update.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Eddie returns home with two plastic shopping bags of truly worthless crap. On his brief trip out, Eddie had grabbed it all in a frantic rush to return to Peter. He nearly dumps a can of Pillsbury as he fumbles into the house, but Venom scoops it up for him before it hits the floor.

“Are those cinnamon rolls?”

Eddie startles. Peter Parker is no longer locked up in Eddie’s bedroom, but sitting on his kitchen counter. Wearing Eddie’s workout clothes. Eating cold deli turkey from the fridge.

Lord have mercy.

Eddie looks down to the can of cinnamon rolls in Venom’s grasp. He nods and says, “Yeah, it is. You, uh, want some?” Venom offers Peter the can as if he’s about to eat the dough raw from the paper. Snorting, Eddie takes the rolls from its tendril with his flesh hand. “We’ll get the oven going.” 

Peter eyes them with a brow aloft. “Where did you go? I thought I was under house arrest so you could protect me and all that.” 

“The only bathroom is in the master bedroom,” Eddie explains as he preheats the oven. “I needed to visit the 7-Eleven. Picked up supplies while I was out. We cleared my pantry with the soup last night, and we can't go for more than three hours without food." Eddie looks over Peter, thinking of Spider-Man. "Neither can you, I'm guessing.”

Peter snorts, nodding. “Okay, fair enough.”

Some of the tension in the room eases. Venom shifts and rests a tendril across Eddie’s shoulders, rubbing up against his cheek. When Eddie turns to separate the rolls onto a cookie sheet, he catches the look that Peter gives them. Neither Venom nor Eddie can quite interpret it.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” Eddie guesses, "About Venom and me and all that."

Peter shakes his head. “Try again.”

 _We ignored him,_ Venom laments,  _apologize for that._

“Tell him yourself,” Eddie says.

Venom forms a head over Eddie’s shoulder, startling Peter. Most people don't like the growth-head, most people find it disgusting. And Eddie is already regretting letting Peter into their secret world.

But then, to both their surprise, Peter leans forward in fascination. “Woah, that’s pretty cool.”

“Thank you,” Venom says.

Peter jumps a little, but this time his surprise is accompanied by a pleased laugh. “You, uh, were gonna tell me something.”

“We ignored you,” Venom says. “And we apologize for that.”

“Oh. Uh. Thanks for that.” Peter says. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. His face is an adorable moue of confusion. He rubs the back of his neck, looking around Eddie’s kitchen. “I think I’ve been a little hard on you guys. I know you were in a tough spot, being my professor and all. I just…”

Peter bites his lower lip, teeth indenting the soft pink flesh. And Venom can’t control itself, it makes a low gurgling growl at the sight. In response, Eddie flushes in embarrassment. Peter’s eyebrows rocket skyward, his own blush matching Eddie’s.

“Uh, maybe we could try meeting again?” Peter extends his hand, “I’m Peter Parker…oh, and Spider-Man.”

Eddie doesn’t know how he ever resisted. Peter Parker is adorable and charming and clever and bright, and he never should have let him out of their sight. He folds his hand around Peter’s, just holding it. “I’m Eddie Brock, no longer your professor, and—"

Venom plucks up the opportunity, covering Eddie completely. “—we are Venom.”

Peter gives a pleasant shudder, Venom’s mouth fills with saliva, dripping onto Eddie's shoulder. Eddie thinks it’s good that at least  _they_ are getting along. Tries not to let the feeling turn into resentment, but can't quite help himself.

 _He can’t get along with me without you,_ Venom assures Eddie.

Peter gets off the counter and approaches slowly, hand outstretched. “Can I, like, touch you?”

“No need for similes," Venom says, still not totally accustomed to human speech patterns. "You may touch us.”

Lightly, Peter runs his fingers down the texture of Venom’s stomach. The ripple of muscle that it admiringly modeled after Eddie’s own abdomen, but also the bumpy woven texture of all symbiotes. When Eddie interprets the dig of Peter’s fingers as a tickle, Venom envelopes Peter’s hand in the sticky webbing, catching his fingers.

Peter gives a loud, yelping laugh—a laugh neither Venom nor Eddie have ever heard before. They smile identical grins, though Venom’s is significantly larger than Eddie’s.

“If I ask you a million questions about symbiotes and outer space, will I annoy you into letting me go?”

Venom leans close. “We like to talk. Try us.”

 

\---

 

Peter, it turns out, is very curious about symbiotes. They've moved to the living room, more comfortable than standing on the hardwood of the kitchen. There, surrounded by Eddie's things, Peter sits cross-legged on the couch and asks question after question like “How much tissue can you regenerate? Could you regenerate his whole arm?” and “What biological features make the bond possible?” Some of his questions offend Venom, such as, "Could you survive without Eddie?" but most it entertains with generosity and amusement.

Eddie sits back and lets them talk, happy to let Venom handle things while he watches.

Now, Peter is animated, already past the indignity of being held essentially captive. It occurs to Eddie that Venom was right; Peter really did just want some attention, some questions answered.

 _My love, I’m sorry,_ Eddie sends through the bond, tightening his lips over his teeth.  _I should have listened._

 _You resisted because I insisted,_ Venom compromises,  _I cannot blame you for wanting what’s best for him._

_Speaking of, he’s waiting for an answer._

Peter is staring at Venom wide-eyed, leaning his palms against his knees. His fingers curl into the excess fabric at his knees, bunching up Eddie’s sweatpants.

“You went quiet for a bit. Just then. Were you guys just, uh…” Peter hesitates as he finds the wording, “…communicating with each other?”

“You might term it as…” Venom can’t find the human word for it until Eddie supplies it, “…telepathy.”

“ _Cool,_ ” Peter enthuses. Then, bowing his head, he adds, “Sorry if it’s rude to say, I just…Symbiotes are so…Your ability to adapt is so advanced that you can synthesize not just the necessary systems like your respiratory and circulatory systems, but—like with your telepathic thing—your neurological systems. Not to mention what’s going on at your literal, let me repeat:  _literal_ , atomic level…" 

Jealousy is not a common occurrence in Eddie’s relationship with Venom, but any lingering doubts he may have had about sharing Venom melt as he listens to Peter gush about the physiologies of symbiotes. He can’t resent anyone who can see Venom for the marvel that it is.

 _He adores you,_ Eddie thinks.

“…and the fact that Eddie not only survived the assimilation, but can  _sustain_ it…” Peter trails off. He shakes his head, exhaling.

 _He adores **us** , _Venom corrects. And even Eddie can agree to this.

“Hey, could I…see him?” Peter says, eyes roaming Venom’s face. “Eddie, I mean.”

Venom peels back its face to reveal Eddie’s. The sight must be disconcerting enough to send a shiver through Peter, but he still leans forward in fascination.

“Oh, so, you’re just…hanging out in there, huh?”

“I have a little more control than that,” Eddie says, but Venom instantly recalls the nights it dragged him unconscious to Peter’s window. “Usually.”

“I can see why you call it a relationship. The push and pull,” Peter says, reaching out to stroke where Venom’s webbing frames Eddie’s face. “I, uh, hope I haven’t…encroached on your relationship—”

“No!” Venom and Eddie interrupt at once.

Venom adores their unintended synchronicities, believes it reflects well on the strength of their bond. It forms a head from the black at their shoulder and nuzzles against Eddie’s cheek, like a cat. Eddie laughs and kisses its head in return.

“We’re bonded,” he assures Peter. “We just happen to have a mutual crush on you.”

“Oh,” Peter says, blush glowing on his cheeks. “I think it’s reciprocated. The crush is. For both of you.” 

Well, then.

\---

 

After they bonded, one of the first things Eddie did was purchase a California king sized mattress to accommodate Venom’s tendency to spread out.  Peter drops back on this bed now, bending his knees so his feet rest flat on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows.

Eddie and Venom stand in the doorway, watching with naked hunger.

“So, uh, you gonna join me or…?”

Venom springs onto the bed, engulfing Eddie up to the chin. To his credit, Peter barely flinches. Even as they land arms first, lowering themselves down between Peter’s legs. They crowd him into lying back on the bed. He smiles up at them, sweet faced and eager.

They’re going to ravage him.

But first, Eddie has to ask, “Peter, are you sure? I was—”

“I want this,” Peter says, and the quaver of desperation in his voice surprises Eddie and Venom both. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

Peter’s got his hand pressed to Venom’s chest. It clings to them, just as he can cling to walls, and he pulls them forward this way. 

Venom gives a full body shiver, its skin lifting in shivery waves over Eddie’s skin. Peter’s head tilts in fascination, gasping a breathy, “Woah.”

Getting Peter’s clothing off is one of the best experiences of Venom and Eddie’s combined lives. Probably because it’s technically _Eddie_ ’s clothing they’re taking off and that does something wicked to their shared libido.

Peter and Eddie are about the same height, but Eddie is much broader; the fabric of his clothes billow around Peter’s elbows and knees. Venom can’t get enough of their size distance. As they peel off Peter’s sweatpants, Venom groans, “His thighs are so slim compared to yours, Eddie. These are tight when you wear them.”

“I like them,” Eddie agrees, brushing his lips over the ridge of Peter’s hip. The boxers he’s wearing are his own, rolled over the elastic at the waist. They remove these too, leaving Peter in Eddie’s long sleeved shirt.

Venom lifts this up by the hem, skimming its claws lightly over his stomach. The bruises on Peter's face have mostly healed, but there are others that linger. The patch of bruising mottled over his ribcage rumbles a growl in Venom’s chest.

“What hurts?” Eddie asks.

“I don’t think anything’s broken anymore,” Peter says, shifting side to side as if to feel for broken bones. “Yeah, I'm good.” 

Venom sheds the surface level of its skin, leaving Eddie's skin bare. It reallocates the black into many tendrils that extend from Eddie’s back.

“Woah,” Peter says as these tendrils shift from Eddie's spine and lift him from the bed. “Beware the Slenderman.”

 _I don’t get it,_ Venom thinks.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Explain what later?” Peter asks, propping an elbow against the tendril that supports his upper back and neck. 

“Venom doesn’t know much about creepypastas,” Eddie explains.

“But I do know about  _pasta,_ ” Venom says, this time using Eddie’s mouth.

Peter likes this, smiles big and toothy, leaning up. He wraps his legs around Eddie’s torso, folding himself in half with all the ease of a contortionist. Then, he flexes his strong thighs around Eddie's middle and pulls his body closer. Eddie goes willingly, caught in the trap.

“Hey, so we’ve never uh—" Peter’s eyes drift down to his mouth.

 _See that?_ Venom whispers.  _He likes your lips. Plush, pink, perfect—_

“Kissed?” Eddie interrupts them both, flushing.

_I like them, too. Want to see them around Peter Parker’s little cock._

Eddie lunges forward to kiss Peter and shut Venom up. Peter shudders at the contact, cupping Eddie’s jaw in his palm, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth.

After a few minutes of indolent kissing, Peter climbs into their lap. Impatient, he pulls at Eddie’s shirt, grinds his hips down. Laughing, they break away from him. Eddie hooks his thumbs into Peter’s boxers, pushing them down over his hips.

“If you like my tongue,” Venom hums, “You’re going to love his lips.”

“It’s not totally exaggerating; I'm pretty good.” Eddie laughs, simultaneously embarrassed and flattered. It’s nice to hear Venom brag about him. Nice to be shown off a little.

 _Oh, I’ll show you off,_ Venom promises, conjuring some of Eddie’s more exhibitionistic fantasies.  _Maybe one day, I’ll voice these thoughts to Peter. See what he thinks. Maybe he wants to show you off too._

Eddie groans and pats Peter’s thighs. “Crawl up on my shoulders,” he manages, voice a little thick and hoarse.

Peter obeys instantly, scuttling up to straddle Eddie’s face. And though he doesn’t seem to need the support, can balance there just fine, Venom winds around his waist, bracing him. 

Slim and pink, Peter’s cock is perfect as it curves up to meet Eddie. He presses a kiss to the weeping head, then drags his lower lip lightly along the underside. All the while, Peter makes shaky huffing sounds, as if he might come at any minute.

Eddie waits for Peter’s breathing to go from erratic to just slightly hyperventilating before he wraps his lips around his teeth and takes Peter into his mouth.

Venom gurgles its appreciation, head resting on Eddie’s shoulder to watch. Through Venom, Eddie can see that Peter’s blush has spread all over his body, rising in splotches on his thighs and under the shirt. He can also see that his own lips are shiny with Peter’s precum. And that Venom is tightening its grip on Peter’s hips, wrapping more tendrils around his upper thighs.

“I know Eddie can take much more than that,” Venom growls. “I’ve gone much, much farther.”

Oh, Eddie understand now. Venom hooking around Peter’s hips wasn’t to brace him at all, but to  _control_ him.

Venom guides Peter’s hips forward, forcing him deeper down Eddie’s throat. He gags a little and likes it, knows that Venom won’t give him more than he can take. He closes his eyes and lets go, lets Venom take control.

Already, Peter is twitching and squirming, his fingers dug into Eddie’s hair. He tries to push them away at first, overwhelmed by the tight, lush suction of Eddie’s lips. Then his fingers go slack. Peter’s head drops back and his mouth falls open as he approaches an orgasm. Eddie nods his head encouragingly, bobbing over him.

But, before Peter can come, Venom draws him away from Eddie’s mouth. Eddie chases after him, and Peter whines, but Venom is insistent. It lowers Peter back to the bed.

Greedy for touch, Eddie crawls after him, gathering his hips in both his hands. He’s never touched Peter’s skin like this, with his own palms and fingers over Peter’s bare skin. It’s heavenly: the cream of his inner thighs against the rough pad of his thumbs, the minute quiver of his buttocks against his fingertips.

Eddie’s breath stammers to a halt and Venom has to nudge his lungs back to work.

“Peter,” Eddie hushes, pulling his hips into his lap. “Peter, Peter, Peter. You’re a miracle. Okay if we fuck you now?”

“Am I supposed to be able to refuse that? Yes,  _yes,_ please do that. Yes.”

Eddie looks over the part of Peter’s thighs, coming to a silent agreement with Venom. It overtakes the lower half of Eddie’s face, teeth clicking together then parting to uncurl its tongue.

Eddie makes eye contact with Peter as they dip their head to tuck its tongue inside him. They watch as Peter’s eyes widen, then roll back in his head. He tries to hide his face into the crook of his elbow, but Venom guides it away.

Inside, Peter’s taste is familiar to them. Makes them drool. Especially when they cram in deep enough to flex the thick base of its tongue against his rim. Lazy and a little sadistic, they tongue him open like that until their saliva drips down the backs of Peter’s thighs, soaking the bed.

Fingers shaking, Peter pulls at Eddie’s hair, at Venom’s limbs holding him down, begging them to “Just get inside me. Please? Okay? I’m asking nicely.”

And what can they do but oblige? 

Venom bullies Eddie up to sitting at the head of the bed, pulling Peter up into his lap again, this time with his back against Eddie’s chest. It sneaks its tendrils up under Peter’s shirt—Eddie’s shirt—skimming over the hard knots of his nipples. Peter jerks under this touch, sensitive to the rough-slick texture of Venom’s skin.

“I want to see,” Eddie murmurs to both of them.

Venom, bless it, lives to please Eddie. It grips the front of the shirt and rips straight down the middle. Eddie gives a protesting groan.

“C’mon, V. I  _liked_ that shirt.”

“I can sew,” Peter says breathlessly. “I can fix it.”

“See,” Venom hums, taking both Eddie’s and Peter’s lengths in its grasp, “Everything’s alright. Relax, Eddie.” 

A limb flexes against the muscles at the base of Eddie’s neck, massaging out the tension. It knows that this is hard for Eddie, letting go is hard for him, but it feels so good when he gives over control. Eddie lets his head drop against it, and it swells up to meet him.

“Let me take care of you both,” Venom rumbles, lifting Peter gingerly by the thighs.

It holds him over Eddie for a moment, guiding the head of Eddie's cock against Peter’s entrance. Peter squirms against its hold, but Venom holds him aloft. When Eddie attempts to rock his hips up against him, Venom straps him down by the hips. Even Eddie’s hands are locked against the mattress. Can’t even touch.

Peter’s head drops back against Eddie’s shoulder, groaning in frustration. 

“Are you sure we should, Eddie?” Venom asks. “He was our student after all. Wouldn’t want to take _advantage_.”

Eddie knows what Venom wants. His whole body heats at the idea of giving it to Venom with Peter right here, watching and listening. Peter cranes his neck now, trying to get a good look at Eddie’s face. His brow is creased, entire face pinched with worry. As if Eddie would deny him now.

He hates that look on Peter’s face, can't bear it. So he gives Venom what it wants, he begs. He strains his wrists up against Venom’s hold, tenses his thighs to bulge just the way Venom likes best.

“Please,” he says, “Please let me touch him.”

“As you wish,” Venom grants, but it’s too easy.

Eddie’s hands are released so that he can fold a palm over Peter’s flat stomach, can cradle his hardness in his palm. Peter gives a shocky moan when Eddie rubs the callouses of his fingers just under the ridge of his head.

But they are still held separate.

“Oh,  _come on,_ ” Peter whines, gasping and thrashing now. A fine layer of sweat has broken out over his temples and under his arms.

Eddie can’t resist tucking his nose just under the base of his ear and inhaling. “Please,” he murmurs there, “Give the kid what he wants.”

“What’s wrong? Thought this is what  _you_  wanted.”

"Venom," he gasps, shifting his hips against the restraints, “You know what I want.”

“So  _say it._ ”

“I want to fuck him!” Eddie says, hysterical and too loud in Peter’s ear. Peter blinks, surprised, and Eddie lowers his voice to a soft grumble. “I want to fuck you,” he repeats. “I wanna be inside you, and then—” Eddie’s voice garbles here, thickening with Venom’s, “—when you can’t remember how you ever did without us,  _we_  want to  _come_ inside you.”

And all Peter has to say is, “Oh fuck yes,” before Venom sinks Eddie’s cock into him.

Peter jerks up as if he’s being electrocuted, coming the moment that Eddie is inside him. Eddie catches his come in the cup of his palm, leaning over his shoulder to watch his body twitch and flex as he orgasms.

When Peter’s body goes slack against Eddie’s chest, Eddie lifts his palm to Venom’s proxy-head. It curls its tongue around his fingers, lapping up and absorbing Peter’s come. It's delicious, Eddie can taste the echo of salt and musk in his own mouth.

Peter watches all of this with delirious, half-lidded eyes. He’s breathing hard now, flexing arrhythmically around Eddie.

“We’re not done just yet,” Eddie murmurs in his ear, rolling his hips as much as Venom will allow. “Is that alright?”

“Please,” Peter manages.

He’s so sweet like this, so expressive. They guide him forward onto his knees and palms. His thighs and elbows quake a little at this angle, so Venom loops a limp around his waist to help hold him up. It doesn’t stop there, enveloping Peter’s entire torso in a thin layer of itself. Like this, they can feel each twitch of his muscles. Can taste the salt slicking his sweating skin. Can hear the blood rush through his veins.

They give him a squeeze, just letting him know they’re there.

Eddie can barely help himself. He crawls forward on his knees, sinking inside Peter all at once. Peter’s head drops forward, tensing around him, but Venom doesn’t want him like that. It guides his head up by the chin, tucking a tendril into his mouth.

“Suck on this,” it orders, and instantly Peter’s mouth closes around it.

The soft slick pressure on the tendril makes Eddie shiver. Bracing one arm on the mattress, Eddie drops forward so his chest is pressed flush against Peter’s back. He catches Peter’s earlobe in his teeth and Peter gives a scared little gasp. Misinterprets the edge of Eddie's human teeth, for Venom's fangs. Relaxes when Eddie smooths his tongue over the sting of his bite.

“Gonna come inside you,” Eddie growls. “Gonna make you feel it.”

Two of Venom’s tendrils are corkscrewing around Peter’s hardening length. He can feel how swollen and hot the flesh is there, how badly Peter wants this. Eddie grits his jaw, close to coming but not quite there.

 _You look gorgeous together._ Venom projects the image of them: Eddie glued to Peter’s back, rutting into him like a wild animal; Peter’s head craning back, the hard tense line of his mouth over his gritted teeth, trying to take the pleasure he’s given; and Venom, tendrils and webbing wrapped all around them as if they’re trapped in a tarpit.

Eddie pushes deep into Peter and comes. They share the orgasm, Eddie and Venom, the sensation of its pleasure raising the stakes of his own. It’s so much, so good, that his vision whites out for a moment. He temporarily loses consciousness.

When he comes to, Venom has arranged them on their back, Peter sprawled out over Eddie’s chest. He’s leaning up towards Eddie, lips parted and searching. It takes Eddie a moment to realize what he’s after.

“Even after everything we’ve done to him,” Venom marvels, “He still wants a kiss."

Eddie hums, touches their lips together but won’t give him the kiss. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?”

“I can hear you both, you know,” Peter says, “I’m, like, right here.”

Though the words are self-assured, Peter’s tone wavers, volume rising at random intervals. His entire body is quivering now from the exertion of the evening. When Eddie looks down between his legs, he’s still hard. 

“Tell you what,” Eddie says against his lips. He licks his palm and skims it against the length of Peter’s cock, barely touching. “If you can come again, just for us, I’ll give you a kiss.”

Peter whines, but nods his consent. Eddie’s hand closes around him, stroking lightly and slowly, just a tease. He looks down the long length of Peter’s lithe body, the twitch of his thighs and clench of his stomach.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes. “There wasn’t a day we didn’t think of you. Wasn’t a night you weren’t in my dreams.”

“We masturbated to you,” Venom contributes, making both Peter and Eddie blush. “Thought about fucking you in his office.”

“Jesus,” Peter says. “This is wild.”

“We’re wild,” Venom says at the same time that Eddie says, “We’ve got you.”

Venom likes this, forms a head for Eddie so that they can kiss. As always, Venom goes in tongue first, melding its face to Eddie’s. Eddie’s hand works over Peter as he kisses Venom, and then Peter is coming into Eddie’s hand. 

When they break apart, gasping, Peter is staring at them.

“Sorry,” Peter croaks as Venom absorbs up the come in Eddie’s hand. “That was just...weirdly hot.”

Venom brushes its teeth against Peter’s temple just as Eddie presses a kiss to his mouth. Peter's mouth is slack against his, exhausted and fucked out. Eddie gathers Peter up against his chest and Venom spreads out around them, curling their bodies closer together.

“Sleep now,” they say together.

In a few hours, they’ll wake up and make the cinnamon rolls they left on the kitchen counter. They’ll wrap Peter in one of Eddie’s nice chenille blankets and watch whatever damn movie he wants to.

And it feels right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your support and patience! The next chapter will be an epilogue!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought you were in store for a substantive and thoughtful exploration of how their relationship developed? 
> 
> You thought wrong. This epilogue is smut.

_**ONE YEAR LATER…** _

Venom is pouting; it’s the end of the semester, and Eddie is cooped up grading final essays tonight. On his way to the kitchen, Peter passes them on the couch. As Venom is wont to do in this mood, it has spread into indolent goop all over the living room. Massive tendrils drape over the coffee table and ooze down into the carpet. Its drooped all over Eddie too, so that every time he tries to reach for a new paper or drink his coffee, Venom weighs him down.

Pouting.

When they see Peter pass by in his suit sans mask, Venom perks up. It forms a head from the goop dripping off the arm of the couch. Eddie doesn't lift his head; he's too involved in his grading.

“Where are you going, little one?” 

Peter checks his text messages, reviews the info dump from Tony spread over several messages:  
  
_If you can pry yourself away from your alien boyfriend for two seconds, we've got an issue by the docks._  
_I didn't mean "pry" literally, by the way._  
_I don't need to know about your sex life._  
_Not that kind of relationship._  
_Three is company, four's a crowd._  
_Oh, the shipment comes in at 9, by the way. Orange crate. Dock 4._

“Somebody’s been stealing tech from Stark shipments," Peter summarizes, "I was going to, uh…”

“Survey the scene?” Eddie quips. His eyes are on the paper propped against his knees, but there’s a glimmer in his eye that suggests his full attention is on Peter. 

Deftly, Peter hops over the slime coating the floor, perching on the side table—the only narrow space that Venom hasn’t managed to infect. There, he leans over and presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple, then to Venom’s. 

When he tries to lean back, Venom has melded to his face, hooking behind his ears to pull him back down towards it. Peter has the brief, terrifying image, of it opening its jaws and eating him whole—an idea that Venom likes to float as dirty talk. Cannibalism factors into foreplay for Venom.

“Stay here with us,” it purrs, “Don’t go out without us.”

“I _have_ to go,” he wheedles, but Venom just latches on harder, pulls him closer.

Several miles away, towards the docks, Peter hears sirens. The hair on his arms rises. He has to go and soon.

“Eddie,” he whines.

They are silent for a beat, debating internally. Eddie’s brow furrows, a good sign that he’s about to win the argument, and then—albeit reluctantly—Venom withdraws.

“Fine,” it growls. “Go out without us.”

“Have a good time,” Eddie says lightly, flipping the page to the front and writing a C next to the title of the essay. He glances up to Peter with the tinge of worry he always has when Peter sets out on a mission alone. Though he's not as possessive as Venom, Eddie has his protective streaks. “If I finish early, we’ll join you.”

“Looking forward to it,” Peter promises and exits through the window.

 

\---

 

Peter is fucked, but not as fucked as he’s been in the past.  He’s suspended by the ankles, hung upside down over the edge of a building by some guy in a ski mask and an ill-fitting suit. They’re at least sixty stories up, and all the blood has pooled in Peter’s head. Oh, and he’s bound with rope.

It must be some sort of specially made rope--maybe even made out of Peter's own  _webbing,_ which would be flattering but ironic--because when Peter wriggles against the constraints, they don’t give. Not even a little.

And that's pretty _weird_ because, as far as he knows, this baddie is just some run of the mill henchman. Easy peasy, but the ropes mess up his angle and if he shoots a web at the guy, Peter could knock them both over the ledge and endanger his life. Peter tries not to kill the petty lowlifes if he can help it.

He’s half hoping that he’ll just be dropped off the side so he can catch himself on the way down, but of course the guy has to start _monologuing,_ and it looks like he’ll be here all night. 

“Stop squirming,” Henchman says when Peter tries to wriggle out of the ropes. “Kingpin wants you back in one piece.”

"Uh...King who?"

Under the ski mask, Henchman's forehead wrinkles. "Kingpin," he repeats, as if Spider-Man must have bad hearing or something.

Peter shrugs, concealing a purposeful yank at the ropes. His wrists move, just a little. “Tell King Pinhead I’ve never heard of him.”

Henchman rolls his eyes. “You’re a pain in my neck, kid. Maybe I should drop you and spare myself the trouble.”

Peter has almost freed his left hand from the ropes when the hair rises on his arms. They're here.

“Venom, wait!” he starts, but it’s too late. A large, black claw emerges from the dark. It glistens in the traffic lights below, cast in an eerie red that defines its edges and illuminates its slick texture. Fingers splayed wide, talons curling down, Venom's hand comes up behind the henchman’s head…

…and rips it clean off.

The rest of the man's body falls to the ground of the rooftop. Dead, obviously. And for a moment Peter is plummeting down the side of the building. He doesn't even bother trying to catch himself. He's only fallen one story before he’s scooped up in several tendrils at once.

Venom is still chewing the guy’s head when it draws him to their chest. The sound of its mastication is a wet crunch, almost as if it were chewing a melon with the rind still intact. When it swallows, Venom dissolves to let Eddie’s face emerge.

His face is full of worry as he asks, “You okay?”

“I had it.” Peter nods, squirming up against the ropes still binding his legs together and his arms to his sides. “I was almost out of these.”

Eddie hums and Venom tightens the rope at Peter’s wrist, confining him totally. “What if we don’t want you out of them?”

Peter’s cheeks redden. Venom’s already got their tentacles jammed up under the collar of his suit—it only took one more ruined suit for Peter to show them how to get inside without ripping it—and the feeling of their oily surface makes Peter writhe.

But then he looks down at the decapitated body on the ground. Blood splurts from the neck, dark and shining in the dim streetlights. A shiver runs through Peter; he can't do it next to a dead body. He's Spider-Man.

Eddie follows his glance downward towards the corpse and nods in understanding.

(They don’t always guess Peter’s thoughts, Eddie and Venom, but they're beginning to get a general sense of what he's thinking. Peter wants to ask Venom if that would indicated whether Peter has the ability to symbiotically bond with them, but isn’t sure if that would be considered rude by symbiote standards.)

Before Peter can tell them not to, Venom outstretches its jaws around the body and gulps it down like a snake. It only needs to bite down twice to consume the whole thing, and even those bites seem more for the purpose of shoving the corpse down its throat.

The fact that Peter can watch his boyfriends eat an entire human body is a testament to how much Peter loves them.

“Now,” they say, Venom licking its teeth clean as they peel Peter out of his mask. “Where were we?”

“We’re on a roof,” Peter reminds, because he always has to remind them when they’re in a public place.

And as always, neither of them give a fuck.

They turn him over carefully, many tendrils moving over Peter’s body to peel him out of the suit. It takes Peter a moment to realize why they’re taking so long to get him out: they’re leaving the ropes in place. 

When he’s naked, still tied up like a hog, Peter’s chest mottles with a bright blush. The lights on the street below turn red, casting more of his skin in a neon pink tint. Like this, he feels very exposed. More exposed than he would be without the bindings. 

“Anyone can see,” he whines.

But they know that he’s bluffing. The rough rope on his bare skin is beginning to chafe, calling attention to just how little he can move. He’s getting hard, and as his cock strains upward, it brushes the rope. The rope abrades the sensitive head of his cock, especially when he struggles.

“This is the tallest building for blocks and blocks,” Eddie says, face emerging again. “No one can see you. Look...”

Eddie and Venom shift Peter around so that he faces the city, letting him lean back against their chest. People pass below, unaware of what is happening sixty stories above their heads. A business man looks upward, and for a moment Peter's heart halts, but he doesn't seem to notice and walks on.

“Unless,” they say polyvocally, “You want someone to.” 

Peter’s face is so, so hot. The lights change again and he can see the cast of green over his bare thighs. He whimpers, humiliated and loving it. 

They chuckle; they both love it when Peter degrades himself like this. Stoops down to their level and rolls in the filth with them. He can feel them hardening up against his lower back. He tries to get his hands behind him to touch, but the ropes won’t let him. His wrists stay bound to his hips. Peter can't touch them; he can't even touch himself.

Venom’s teeth brush against the nape of his neck, grazing the sharp edges against the sensitive skin there. They rut up against him, trailing a wet smear over his spine. Peter’s entire body shudders. The tremors scrape his skin against the ropes.

“We missed this,” it growls, “Spider-Man, helpless and writhing.”

A hand, Eddie’s hand, curves over his cheek. Peter leans into it gratefully, nuzzling his fingertips.

“But now with Peter Parker’s sweet face,” Eddie adds, sinking his fingers into Peter’s mouth. He sucks them gratefully, and whines when Eddie pulls his hand back, trailing Peter's saliva over his cheek and down the column of his throat.

They shift the angle of their rutting, now grinding their length between Peter’s cheeks, against his hole. But each time the fat head of their cock nudges his hole, they don’t sink in, just pass it by and spread more wetness against him.

It's torture. Exquisite torture. At least Peter knows how to end it.

“Please,” Peter says. “Please, fuck me. I’ll do anything. I’ll—”

“Hold yourself open,” Eddie growls, a layer of Venom simmering under his voice. “Show us.”

Peter’s wrists are bound by his hips, but if he strains and swivels his hands back with his fingers outstretched, he can just barely tuck his fingertips around the curve of his cheeks. Like this, Peter artlessly holds himself open. It’s sheer degradation, sends waves of shameful heat pulsing through his body. But it gets results.

They sink into him instantly. Eddie’s fingers are curled around the ropes that encircle his hips, using them as leverage to pull Peter against them.

With his legs bound together like this, Peter can’t spread his thighs to make room for their girth. He doesn’t even know which one of them is inside him right now—Eddie’s, pink and fat, or Venom’s monstrous length, or _both_ —and it doesn’t matter. Peter can feel the whole heft of it carving through him.

He wants to grab at Eddie’s shoulders, or curl his fingers around one of Venom’s tendrils, or wrap his legs around their waist, or _something._ Tied up like this, Peter can’t do much of anything. He goes limp, lets them do with his body what they want because he has no control over it anymore. He’s forced to just take it.

And take it and take it and take it.

As if to prove this point, Eddie takes a handful of Peter’s hair and pulls his head back towards them. When they duck their head to whisper, it’s Eddie’s lips that brush the shell of Peter’s ear. He shudders, tightening and convulsing around them, and all three groan at once.

“Alright, Pete?” Eddie huffs.

There’s a manic edge in his voice now, signaling to Peter that he’s close to coming. That is, if Venom lets him come. Sometimes it will keep Eddie on edge for hours, letting Peter have orgasm after orgasm while Eddie trembles on the edge. Last time they fucked like that, Eddie was sobbing by the time Venom let him come. And Peter had watched, slack jawed and over-sated, just how they like him.

“Peter?” Eddie and Venom prompt, voices overlapping into a pleasant purr. Their hips still, and the unmoving shape of them inside Peter is a torture. 

“I’m okay,” Peter blurts in a rush. “Please, _please_ don’t stop. I need it. I need  _you._ Both of you. Now. Fuck,  _please._ "

The growl that comes from them next is all Venom, a crackling gurgle. “Now _that_ is how to beg, Eddie.” 

Peter flushes. Eddie’s exasperated sigh cascades down his spine. For a moment nothing happens as Venom and Eddie have a private conversation. Then they start moving again, but slower, and with deeper, more purposeful thrusts than before. A hand curls into the rope at the center of his back, letting him go so that his body drops forward.

It takes Peter a moment to realize that there’s only two things supporting his weight now: the hand coiled around the rope, and their cock inside him.

Peter bends his knees, bracing the sticky bottoms of his feet against their quads. With this leverage, he can rock himself against them, body pitched forward at a ninety degree angle to take them deeper. Bent over like this, he can see directly down to the streets below. Foot traffic is light, but there is a steady stream of over-worked business men heading towards the station. There are offices lit up several stories below them. If any of the people working there were to look out their window, they'd see Peter--bound and naked, fucked by an alien.

Peter isn’t sure he can sink any lower into depravity, but he seems to be giving it his best shot.

Venom and Eddie laugh, braying and fond. “Clever little thing,” they praise, genuinely pleased with his efforts. “As a reward…”

Eddie’s hand wraps around his length, dry and rough against the hot skin there. He rubs his thumb under the glans, pulling the hood down from the head. Cold air hits his exposed tip, and Peter rocks his elbows against the ropes, trying but not wanting to escape.

“There’s a nice hole here too,” Venom notes when Eddie thumbs the slit. “Maybe someday, we’ll put something inside it.”

A tendril, thinner than Peter’s slimmest finger, wriggles against the tip of his cock. It doesn’t go inside him, but the threat is enough. Peter’s hips buck up and Eddie’s other hand presses against his lower belly, holding him still against them.

“Fuck, can’t I just…” Peter shifts his shoulders from side to side, flexes his thighs to try to move himself. His eyes are stinging with involuntary tears as the pleasure builds low in his stomach, but it isn’t enough.

“No.” Venom’s tone is sterner than they usually use with Peter. Coupled a hard thrust that sprinkles stars in Peter’s vision, it seems like a punishment. “Don’t be greedy.”

“Oh, give him what he wants,” Eddie hums, squeezing his head. Eddie’s hands are broad and warm, thickly calloused at the bases of his fingers. The extra friction feels like heaven and sin all at once. “Look at him. Wanton little thing. Can’t help himself.” 

It's so good, and Peter is so full. He nods in agreement; he can’t control himself. Not even a little.

“Can I come?”

If there’s something that Venom and Eddie can both enjoy, it’s when Peter asks permission to come. They give their consent instantly, in perfect and separate tandem. And Peter unglues his feet from their thighs, throws his head back, and comes into Eddie’s hand.

“Make him lick your palm clean,” Venom muses before Peter's even finished.

When Eddie brings his palm to Peter’s mouth, he curls his tongue between his fingers, tasting dust of his skin.

“Don’t swallow it,” Eddie gasps suddenly, as if the thought has just occurred to him. Venom’s tone remains even, no matter how close they are to coming, but Eddie’s voice is ragged. Low and rumbling in his chest. Peter can feel the vibrations. Eddie's fingers tremble against Peter’s tongue, belying just how effected they are.

Peter feels himself getting hard again, the swell of his hardening cock a delicious agony. He squirms against them and Eddie groans, pulling Peter up by the ropes to rest his forehead against his shoulder.

“Don’t swallow,” he repeats, his voice barely human. “Hold your come in your mouth and wait for us.” 

Peter does as he’s told, pressing the base of his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep any from trickling down his throat. He’s never held the taste of himself in the mouth like this. The sourness settling between his taste buds raises a flush to his cheeks.

He whines, unable to ask for what he wants. He feels overfull, overwhelmed. The hard shape of them seems to grow bigger the longer they stay inside him, making room for themselves where Peter is softest and tightest.

And when Eddie presses his palm against Peter’s lower belly, he rubs in small circles as if he can _feel_ them inside Peter.

Even his eyes feel full, welling over with tears. He can scarcely catch a breath, as if his very lungs are suffocated. His fingers are still holding himself open, and a tendril curls around his thumb, stroking over the knuckle to soothe.

“Come again, little one,” they sigh.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He’s scared of how intense it’ll be, doesn’t want to come without them. Doesn’t think he can handle it.

They seem to understand this. And then he’s being lifted up, up off of them and tenderly unraveled from the ropes. His bare skin is hot against their slick tendrils, against the night air, and without the friction burn, he feels even more exposed.

They turn him over to face them, and Peter is instantly comforted by the sight of Eddie’s face nestled into the mass of Venom. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and wet as if he’s been biting at them. Eddie guides Peter's arms around their neck, where he holds on for dear life. He wraps his legs around their waist, squeezing his thighs against them to signal he's ready for more.

As they sink back into him, a slow burning grind, Peter leans up to press a closed-mouth kiss against Eddie's plush mouth. And Eddie parts their lips instantly, scoops his tongue into his mouth and swallows the come that Peter’s been cupping on his own tongue. They groan, as if it's the best thing they've ever tasted.

Holy hell, that’s _hot._

And though Peter didn’t think he could, he grits his jaw and lets the orgasm unfurl deep inside him. It hurts, the force of it enough to clench every muscle in his body, but then he feels them coming inside him—warm, wet, _filthy_ —and they’re holding him tight to themselves and it’s all just so perfect and good. Peter gives himself over to it, to them.

He comes to in increments: vision returning in staticky shapes, sensation spreading through his major muscles and skin. He realizes now that there are rope burns spread horizontally all across his body. That he’s cold. He gives a little shiver, goosebumps raised all over his skin.

“So good,” they murmur against his neck, enveloping him into the warm dark. "Let us take care of you."

For a moment, Peter feels safe and cared for, cradled and coddled as he is. Then they cover his head and cut him off from air. It’s not a total vacuum seal inside of Venom, but it’s close.

“Breathing!” he reminds, choking out the words, “Humans need to breathe!”

Venom dissolves and then it’s mostly Eddie, holding him by the shoulders. “Sorry, sorry,” Eddie says. “We forget.”

“That humans need to _breathe_? Eddie,” Peter says, “I hate to break it to you, but you _are_ a human, Eddie.”

“Most non-terrestrial organisms can’t breathe oxygen,” Venom rumbles through Eddie’s mouth, wriggling a tendril against Peter's closed lips, teasing. “It is part of what makes humans so…”

Eddie clears his throat, swallows thickly. “Venom thinks our respiratory systems are very…sexy.”

Peter rubs his elbows, feeling the singe of the friction burn there. “Yeah, sure. My respiratory system is what’s turned you on so much.”

“Let’s take him home,” Eddie decides.

Home. It’s not totally accurate to call Eddie’s apartment home—now that he’s graduated, Peter has technically moved back in with May—but he spends every night at Eddie’s and half of Eddie’s dresser has been appropriated by Peter. All his stuff is there: the little electronic gadgets he’s assembling, his favorite video games, all of his spidey suits except one.

And after tonight, Peter isn’t looking forward to going back to May’s. He’s looking forward to Eddie and Venom. To their apartment and to their bed where all three of them will cram onto the mattress and Peter will wake up in a pleasant tangle of Eddie and Venom.

That’s home.

 

* * *

END

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all your support. I had no idea when I started this that it would become as popular (or as long) as it was. Thank you, again. I'm so appreciative.
> 
> I'm planning on taking a break for a bit, but I'm hoping to open up [commissions](https://barb-aricyawp.tumblr.com/post/180861902239/fuck-dignity-accepting-commissions) for the holidays.
> 
> You can direct all inquiries and complaints to my tumblr: [barb-aricyawp](https://barb-aricyawp.tumblr.com/) while it's still there.


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